


Caught in Mirrors

by Nelsynoo



Series: Anwen Trevelyan [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, filling in plotholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: When the Inquisitor is captured by the Venatori, they send a powerful shapeshifter back to Skyhold in her place. Her friends, and particularly Cullen, are puzzled by her unusual behaviour but assume it's simply the burdens of leadership finally taking their toll.With no-one aware that she's missing, and so no hope of rescue, the Inquisitor has to think of a way to escape and get back to Skyhold before her doppelgänger can cause too much damage.





	1. Morning Correspondence

_~~Inquisitor Trevelyan~~ Anwen,   
_

_I am continually amazed by your ability to find the undead wherever you travel._

_You will be happy to hear, however, that your efforts have not been in vain. I have already received word from Marshall Bastien Proulx that he has redeployed his troops to patrol the roads around Ville Montevelan to protect civilians from these ‘Freemen of the Dales’ you have encountered. It disgusts me to think of these deserters terrorising the very people they have sworn to protect and I am glad the Inquisition has been able to assist in bringing an end to their mindless terror._

_Leliana’s scouts report that you are making excellent progress back to Skyhold. It makes your absence a little easier to bear knowing that you will soon be home._

_I finished the book you so kindly lent me. You are right; I did find the Guard-Captain to be a compelling hero – although I doubt he could have chased the murderer across the city’s rooftops after having received such a severe stab wound in the final chapter (and, yes, I can see you rolling your eyes at me as you read)._

_I did not fold the page corners, as instructed._

_The trees in Skyhold’s Garden have started to blossom and your favourite spot has been engulfed amongst a storm of pink._ _~~I was thinking~~   _ _~~Perhaps~~   It would be a pleasant spot for a picnic, if you felt so inclined upon your return._

_I miss you. A lot._

_Maker protect you,_

_Cullen_

_Postscript._

_Tower to D5._

* * *

The last line makes her chuckle.

They hadn’t managed to finish their last chess game; some emergency involving one of Vivienne’s noble guests had required Anwen’s immediate attention, and then when that had been resolved, Cullen had been called away to inspect his newest recruits. And then Cullen had needed to review the guard patrols. And Anwen had had to attend a fitting for her new set of armour.

And so the poor chess board had been abandoned, alone and forgotten in Anwen’s quarters, awaiting the day its players would return and play to either glory or defeat.

It had been Anwen’s suggestion to complete the game in their correspondence, although she’d intended it as a joke – she was embarrassed enough at her constant, repeated thrashings at the hands of her Commander; to lose at chess while miles away from an actual board seemed like a uniquely cruel form of torture. At least when Cullen beat her in person, he soothed her wounded pride with gentle kisses pressed against her pouting lips.

But Cullen had taken her suggestion as sincere and had ended all his letters since with his next masterful move in their game. Anwen had felt obliged to respond in kind, though she can’t really remember where all the pieces had been positioned – not that it really matters; she knows defeat is all but inevitable, whether she remembers the board or not.

Although, truth be told, it doesn’t really matter what the outcome of the game is. Because as much as Anwen likes to win (which is a lot), she likes spending time with Cullen more, likes sharing in the things which bring him joy. And there’s something oddly comforting about continuing their game in their letters; something comforting about the knowledge that mere distance cannot hinder that joy. 

She folds the letter and slips it inside a leather portfolio alongside the latest reports from Leliana and Josephine, as well as Cullen’s more official update with information on the Inquisition’s holdings and troop numbers. She’ll write a response when they set up camp for the night – it’ll give her the whole day’s journey to consider her next move. Perhaps she can even persuade Dorian to assist in her ongoing endeavours to finally beat Cullen (although she knows that Dorian’s record of wins isn’t particularly impressive either – although at least Dorian puts up a good fight).

“What are you grinning about?” Dorian asks when Anwen emerges from her tent, peering at her over the rim of his mug and blowing tentatively on the steaming tea within. He sits on a low stool around the fire at the centre of their camp, looking immaculate even at this early hour.

“Nothing,” she replies airily before turning to a nearby scout and handing them her latest set of reports and replies, ready to be sent with the next raven.

“Perhaps something in your morning letters has delighted you? Perhaps something from our fair Commander?”

She frowns, dismayed to find that she’s so transparent. 

“Ha,” Sera cackles around a mouthful of bread and cheese, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Dorian, “something dirty? Something about… _positions_?”

Before Anwen has the chance to respond, she feels a sharp burst of pain as The Iron Bull slaps her convivially on the shoulder. “Niiice!” he bellows as he steps around her, helping himself to a bowl of stew from the cauldron bubbling above the campfire before settling down on the other side of Dorian. She glares at his back as he fusses round the fire, fighting the urge to rub pathetically at the smarting pain in her shoulder.

“Firstly, I hate all of you,” she begins; Sera and Bull grin in response while Dorian clutches his chest in feigned offence. “Secondly, Cullen is a perfect gentleman in his letters; he wrote about books and chess and-“

“Pfft,” Sera interrupts, “you two are so pissing boring.”

Anwen’s frown deepens, resenting the allegation. There are few things she can think of more insulting than being described as boring (except, perhaps, _nice_ ).

“Don’t worry, Boss, I can have a word with him when we get back to Skyhold.” Bull gestures with his spoon as he talks, dribbles of gravy arching through the air with his enthusiasm. “You two spend so much time apart, it must get lonely in that bedroll of yours. I can give him some tips on spicing up his letters – what he wants to do to you, what he wants you to do to him. It’ll give you some inspiration when you’re, you know, sorting yourself out at night.”

“All right, Bull,” she snaps, eager to end the conversation. “That’s a… _very kind_ offer. I’ll – um – I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s grinning – broad and toothy – and she wants to send him a withering glare but she can feel her traitorous lips curling up into a smile. When he pulls up a nearby supply crate and gives it a welcoming pat, she feels the small smile broaden. By the time she’s settled, and Bull has handed her a bowl of stew and a mug of tea, her own grin is as wide and warm as his.

Well, _shit_ – she can’t stay mad at these idiots for long.

“Did you get my note?” Sera asks around another mouthful of bread, and Anwen is relieved to see the conversation shifting away from speculation about what she may or may not get up to in her bedroll at night.

“Yes – although I don’t quite understand.”

“What’s there to understand? Some gobshite in Maida Vallée is being a prick, yeah? He fires half his staff – now they’ve lost their livelihoods – and the other half is jittery and scared. No one knows what’s going on, which is why we need some of Leliana’s people to pay a visit, right?”

“Yes, I got that, and I’ve sent Leliana a letter requesting her assistance, but normally when a Lord makes drastic cuts to his staff it’s because of financial difficulties in the family – and I’m afraid there’s not much the Inquisition can do about that.”

“My people haven’t mentioned money troubles.”

“Well noble families tend to keep those sorts of things very well hidden. It wouldn’t be surprising if the staff were unaware.”

“Are you saying they’re lying? Or stupid?” Sera’s voice sharpens as the speaks, tinges of anger colouring the edges of her words. Sera’s used that tone of voice with her before – especially at the beginning, when she’d learned about Anwen’s noble heritage but hadn’t decided yet whether she was the _good_ kind of noble.

“Of course not! I’m just saying… there are some things that not even the Inquisition can fix. If this Lord is truly having money problems, well, it’s shit for the staff who’ve lost their jobs but hardly nefarious.” 

Sera hums in begrudging acceptance, nodding her head slowly.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy, Sera, seeing some uptight, holier-than-though noble fall from grace?” Dorian suggests, perhaps in an effort to smooth some of the tension.

“Not if he takes the little people down with him,” she grumbles in response.

“How about, if Leliana finds out that something is amiss, you and I can pay this Lord a personal visit?” Anwen suggests, “You can unleash a swarm of bees on him and I’ll – I don’t know – set fire to all of his breeches or something. Deal?”

Sera smiles, small at first then increasingly wicked.

“And this, Inky, is why we’re friends,” Sera says with a wink, and Anwen is relieved to hear the sharpness fall from Sera’s voice. 

Their friendship had not always been an easy thing. Anwen had originally thought Sera peculiar and Sera thought her a snob – opinions which had proven difficult to overcome (largely because they aren’t entirely untrue). It had taken both women a long time to recognise the other’s finer qualities, even longer to build their relationship from one of begrudging respect to genuine friendship, but now Anwen values Sera’s opinion and her company more than most people’s, and she _hates_ it when Sera speaks to her with terse, clipped tones – as occasionally still happens when Anwen says something snobbish.

So it’s a great relief when Sera starts affably chatting away about some of her prouder moments, words muffled and indistinct around ambitious mouthfuls of breakfast as she describes hapless nobles caught pants-less at fancy parties, or fashionable salons inexplicably overrun with wild nugs. Dorian rolls his eyes and Iron Bull laughs uproariously and Anwen would be content to stay around the campfire all day just sharing stories. But then Scout Harding appears, an apologetic look on her face as she taps the ground impatiently with her toe, and that’s when Anwen knows it’s time to leave.

Anwen feels a slight twinge of guilt – she really hadn’t meant to dawdle so much over breakfast – but then they _have_ made excellent progress over the last few days. Surely they can afford a little leisure today.

After all, it is a _beautiful_ day. The weather has started to turn, days becoming warm and long as Spring firmly takes hold over Thedas. The Exalted Plains had been beautiful, wild flowers carpeting the softly undulating hills, painting the ground in broad strokes of yellow and blue. If not for the ramparts filled with shuffling corpses, Anwen would have thought the whole place almost unbearably picturesque. 

Cullen’s letter had mentioned blossoms back at Skyhold and Anwen feels a little frisson of excitement at the thought of seeing her home bedecked in a mantle of colour – it’ll be her first Spring in Skyhold and her growing anticipation makes her long for home even more than usual.

She’s always liked Skyhold, right from the very first moment she’d stepped foot inside the castle’s walls; it felt safe, somehow, comforting. Perhaps because of its age, or simply its majestic baring – the proud, straight walls standing in defiance against both time and the unforgiving climate of the Frostbacks. But to see Skyhold drenched in sunlight, awash with colour from Spring-time blooms – well, that’s not just majestic – that sounds bloody magnificent.

The terrain is easy as they make their way across the Dales, the party still another day away from the rockier terrain which marks the start of the Frostbacks, and conversation is lively as they travel. Sera and Anwen play a guessing game of Sera’s creation (the rules of which thoroughly elude Anwen), while Dorian and Bull bicker good-naturedly about Tevinter history. When they stop for lunch, Anwen asks Dorian for advice on her chess game but with Anwen unable to recollect the board, Dorian can do little except offer his commiserations.

As they settle into the afternoon’s ride, Scout Harding starts to sing, a lively, cheerful tune that Anwen doesn’t recognise – something Ferelden most likely, or perhaps Dwarfish?

Bull pulls up his draft horse to ride alongside Anwen and for a time they talk in excited tones about the rumours they’d heard of a High Dragon in the far north of the Plains. Bull offers some ideas on potential battle tactics, gesturing wildly to fully explain his points, and Anwen can’t help but snort with laughter at his more outrageous suggestions. It’s not that she doesn’t admire his ingenuity or sheer enthusiasm – but she’s _certain_ that Varric will object to how frequently he features in Bull’s plans as some sort of impromptu projectile. After a while she’s pretty sure he’s just pulling her leg, suggesting more and more ridiculous tactics purely to make her laugh.

She’s still chuckling to herself when she notices that Bull has suddenly turned quiet and thoughtful, and when he starts speaking again, his voice is softer, pitched low so that the rest of the party cannot hear him.

“You know – it’s not just the letters,” he says, “I can give Cullen advice about _all kinds_ of things.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, not quite catching the first part of the sentence but fearing that the conversation is about to take a turn toward uncomfortable territory.

“Positions… roleplay… techniques… toys…” He counts each new point on his fingers.

“Bull,” she interjects before his list can become too exhaustive, “ _thank you_ – but this isn’t really necessary.” She can feel a blush beginning to bloom across her cheeks.

“Ah! So he’s already tickling your fancy! Good for him!” A delighted smirk spreads crookedly across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Well – actually... I don’t…” She averts her gaze, pointlessly readjusting her grip on her reins.

His previous elation drops from his face, looking mildly disappointed instead. “Oh – so you two haven’t yet?… I just assumed… from the way you two go at each other on the battlements.”

Her head jerks up at that, looking at him with a pained expression. “I thought we were being discreet!”

He guffaws, loud and bellowing, then stops abruptly when he realises she’s not laughing with him. “Really? You thought - ? Oh shit.”

There’s an awkward pause as Anwen looks at the landscape around her, looking at the trees, the clouds – anything but Bull’s incredulous expression. It’s not that she feels she _needs_ to hide her relationship with Cullen but, well, it’s hardly befitting of a woman of her noble stature to be seen canoodling in quite such a public setting.

Although sometimes she thinks her noble stature can fuck off – because canoodling in public can be awfully fun.

“With all due respect, Boss, _why not_?” Bull asks, and if it was anyone else asking the question she would dismiss them at once for being unduly invasive. But from Bull the question seems more like concern for her wellbeing than nosiness, and she finds she doesn’t resent it. 

“There hasn’t really been time,” she explains with a small shrug. “We’ve only been together a few months and we’ve been – _busy_. First I was finding the Wardens, then there was that Rift in Crestwood, and those journeys to and from the Western Approach took fucking ages. And then there was Adamant, of course, which preoccupied quite a lot of our time and – well – I don’t think either of us just wanted a quick fuck bent over Cullen’s desk.”

Bull snorts. “That’s a shame; that sounds fun.”

She gives him what she thinks is a reproachful glare but she must be losing her touch because he only grins in response. “I’ve been an apostate most of my adult life,” she continues, feeling a peculiar need to defend herself, “always on the move, always trying to keep one step ahead of the Templars – and I’ve never really had time for a relationship. I’ve had brief affairs from time to time but now – with Cullen – _it’s different_. I don’t have to run anymore; I can take my time, really savour things.”

“I get that,” he says, nodding sagely. “It’s nice sometimes, to ratchet up the anticipation, _teasing_ , push him to the very edge of want and then leave him lingering there until he’s ready to burst.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “It sounds way dirtier when you phrase it like that.”

His grin somehow manages to broaden, wide and toothy. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs then, light and easy, and Bull joins her with his own heartier chuckles.

“But remember – when you’re ready to have some _real_ fun – you can come talk to me any time for advice. Cullen looks like the kind of man who could be into some really kinky shit if given the chance; it’s always the noble types.”

Her blush is back. “Well – thank you for… thank you. I’ll – keep that in mind.”

He starts giving her some tips then, despite her insistence that they are unnecessary, regaling her with tales of some of his greatest conquests. Many of his tips and tricks are frankly absurd, either scandalously obscene or requiring a level of acrobatics she is certain she does not possess. And yet while several of his suggestions are staggeringly ambitious, some of them are… _intriguing_ , and she makes a mental note to ask for more information when the need arises.

She’s enjoying herself, she realises, despite her habitual discomfort in talking about something she usually considers deeply private. Her cheeks are burning with colour, and she can’t seem to stop her hands from fidgeting nervously with her reins, but there’s something about Bull’s laidback charm that puts her at ease.

Bull’s not trying to be quiet anymore, speaking in broad, animated tones so that anyone riding nearby can hear, and Dorian and Sera’s occasional interjections do nothing to stop the burning blush that has now spread all the way down to the collar of Anwen’s tunic. Bull makes rude hand gestures to illustrate his most sordid stories and Dorian tuts in what appears to be feigned disapproval, and Anwen’s so engrossed in conversation that she doesn’t realise something is wrong until she notices that Harding has stopped singing.

She looks up – Harding’s pony is happily trotting along, leading the party from a few feet ahead as always, and nothing appears amiss until Anwen sees Harding slowly slumping forward in her saddle.

At first Anwen’s confused, staring at Harding with a quizzical curl to her brows, but then Harding slips from her pony’s back, body heavy and unmoving, and it’s not until she thuds into the grass that Anwen spots the arrow standing proudly from her neck.

Then everything erupts into a storm of movement and noise.

“We’re under attack!” someone shouts, “protect the Inquisitor!”

Anwen can’t help but think that that’s a thoroughly stupid thing to say. Because _she’s clearly fine_ while Harding – oh, _Maker_ , Harding – is lying on the ground with a slowly growing halo of blood around her head.

She can feel the air sizzle and hiss as Dorian unleashes his fire magic, and the familiar sound of Bull’s war cry pierces above all over noise, but all Anwen can focus on is Harding’s lifeless body as she jumps from her saddle and runs over to where Harding lies. She falls to her knees amongst the grass and immediately places her hand over the wound, pushing out with tendrils of magic that pulse and throb from her fingertips. Harding stares straight ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes, mouth gaping uselessly at the air as she tries desperately to breathe through her ruined neck.

“It’s all right,” Anwen coos soothingly, “I have you, Harding.”

One hand wraps around the arrow shaft while the other presses close to the wound. Then she murmurs a prayer to the Maker before pulling the arrow clear of Harding’s neck and channelling as much magic as she can to staunch the bleeding. Harding’s body spasms with pain as the arrow is ripped free, though she makes no sound, and Anwen is struck with the sudden thought that – _fuck_ – maybe she was supposed to leave the arrow in. She gives her head a firm shake, rattling away the doubt before it has a chance to distract her, and instead draws on the spirits of the Fade to grant her the power she needs.

Anwen is dimly aware of fighting all around her, Sera cackling as she unleashes a barrage of arrows and the unsettling crack of Bull’s mace as it makes contact with soft, vulnerable flesh – but all she can focus on is Harding and the tendrils of blue-white light that fall from her hands to curl around the woman’s tattered flesh. Anwen has always been proficient at healing magic – a rare gift amongst mages and one that Anwen has always treasured – but as she kneels among the grass, her friend’s blood seeping into the front of her trousers, she begins to feel the terrible, creeping thought that, perhaps, she’s _just not good enough_.

Finally the skin seems to knit together, and Harding takes a deep, desperate gulp of air. Anwen lets her magic wink out, shoulders slumping from exertion, and she manages to loosen the tightness in her jaw just enough to allow for a tired smile.

There’s only a brief moment of joy, though, when, in the next moment, Anwen feels something sharp against the back of her head. She pitches to the side, falling face first into the ground, and she only just manages to roll over in time to see her assailant looming over her with his fists raised threateningly. Her magic reserves are low, so much mana used to mend Harding’s wound, and it takes all of her energy to summon enough magic to blow the man back and send him fumbling to his knees. It’s only a short respite, the man quickly regaining his footing, and Anwen has to scramble fast to pull herself to her feet and prepare for another attack.

Her staff is still with her horse, foolishly abandoned when she’d run to Harding’s aid, and it takes more energy than she really has to spare to summon a chain of lightening. A branch of glimmering purple and silver hits the man square in the chest. He stumbles – but it’s too weak to do more than temporarily slow him. He grins, maybe even laughs (though she can barely hear it over the sounds of nearby battle) and lunges forward.

Anwen tries to pull from somewhere deep inside, summoning all her reserves, desperately tugging at the veil to drag across any magic she can muster. She can feel the meagre power pooling in her hand, a stuttering ball of sparks and heat, and she prays that this is enough to stop the man nearly upon her.

She lifts her hand, prepares to unleash the power jumping across her palm, when suddenly she feels an arm wrap around her, crushing her neck in the crook of an elbow. Another arm wraps around her waist, holding her tight against the unmoving body of whomever has approached her from behind. She struggles in the chokehold, thrashing her legs and kicking with all her might.

She lets loose the magic held in her hand, her whole body clenching from the effort, but it does little more than sputter and skitter across her assailant’s arms, and though she can see his skin blister and smell his hairs singe, the tight grip does not relent.

The last thing Anwen thinks before the blackness overtakes her vision is, _oh shit_.


	2. Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anwen makes it home after her unfortunate incident in the Exalted Plains but something doesn't seem quite right...

Cullen winces as sword hits shield. It’s an ugly sound; a _crunch_ then a _shink_ as the blade scrapes against metal.

“No, Roland!” he barks, “you need to _vary_ your attacks; no wonder she keeps blocking you.”

His voice is tempered with more than a little impatience. It’s been a long day – a morning filled with reports and an afternoon filled with training sessions – and Cullen’s passed the point where he can keep the frustration from his tone.

“You have your own shield, Roland – try doing something with it!”

The young soldier lifts his shield, bashing it against his opponent’s then trying to slice his sword at her flank. She brings her own sword up in time, parrying his blow and sending it wide of its mark.

Cullen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between gloved fingers. At least Roland has the good sense to look abashed.

“Start again,” Cullen says with a nod.

Cullen thinks he can hear Roland mutter something uncomplimentary under his breath as he turns and walks to his starting position at the far end of the sparring ring but decides not to call the man out on his language – he’s had a thorough thrashing this afternoon and Cullen suspects his deep mortification is enough punishment for one day.

Roland twists his sword’s pommel in his palm, adjusts his grip, then falls back into a ready position, knees bent slightly and torso pitching forward with intent. On the other side of the sparring ring, his opponent lifts her shield in front of her in preparation for his next attack.

When Cullen gives his signal, Roland darts forward with a surprising amount of speed for someone in full armour. Roland had been a Templar though, before joining the ranks of the Inquisition, and Cullen knows from experience that underestimating a Templar’s speed is a mistake only made once. Their armour may be heavy and cumbersome but Templars train to carry such a burden from childhood and they soon learn to shoulder it with relative ease.

Roland lets out a bellowing cry as he nears his target, raising his shield at the same time as he aims low with his sword. Despite the strength behind his attack, the sword is deflected, chinking harmlessly against metal as his opponent swoops down with her shield. Unperturbed, Roland pushes against her, using the momentum from his strike to circle around. He pulls his sword back then quickly stabs out again, this time managing to break his opponent’s defences long enough to land a hit on her flank.

“Yes, finally!” Cullen shouts as he hears the dull thud of blade against armour.

There’s an indecorous whoop as Roland steps back from his opponent, sword and shield dropped to the sandy ground as he raises his arms in what was probably intended as a celebratory gesture were his limbs not so heavy from hours of training. Instead they just flail clumsily.

His opponent removes her helmet, tucking it under her armpit as she regards him with one sharply arched brow. “I was taking it easy on you,” she drawls with a growing smirk, “it was beginning to get embarrassing.”

“Shut up, Moira,” Roland snaps back, though with little genuine anger, “I’m trying to enjoy the moment.”

She chuckles. “By all means, enjoy it while you can – it won’t be repeated.”

Roland responds with a rude hand gesture and Moira’s chuckles turn into full-blown laughter. Cullen watches the spectacle before him with an amused quirk to his lips until, unexpectedly, he finds that he’s laughing too. _It feels good_ , he realises, to forget about Corypheus or troop manoeuvres or supply lines, and just focus on the people under his command – these hard-working, dedicated, _ridiculous_ people. As the Inquisition has grown, Cullen has found himself spending more and more time cooped up in his office with reams of paperwork. But this – training his soldiers, sharing in their struggles and their laughter – this is where Cullen feels most at home.

He’s about to call for another drill – there’s a shield technique he’s read about in one of Dorian’s books he’d like to try out – when he hears the familiar rumble of the horn from atop the gate-tower. His heart does an embarrassing little flip-flop, excited at the familiar sound and what it signals.

_The Inquisitor is back_.

He looks toward the gate longingly, though he knows there’ll still be a few minutes until Anwen actually arrives in Skyhold, then back toward his soldiers. His gaze is quickly drawn back toward the gate and this time he has to consciously _force_ his head back to the task at hand. It’s a bit embarrassing, really, that a man as disciplined as Cullen should find it so hard to keep his attention on his soldiers.

But then Anwen has been away a _really_ long time – several weeks trying to bring some semblance of order to the chaos left in the wake of this stupid Orlesian Civil War – and Cullen wants nothing more than to see her, to hear her voice as she tells him about her travels, to just… be in her presence. But he has drills to run, crucial tactical knowledge to impart, and a dozen eager soldiers waiting for his next instruction.

Casting his eyes across the assembled group before him, trying to remember what drill he’d been planning before he’d become distracted, Cullen startles a little when he realises that Moira is looking at him with an oddly pointed expression. It’s a little unnerving actually – the piercing stare, the slight quirk to the corner of her lips.

“If you like, sir, I could oversee the next few practice drills on your behalf if you have… _other tasks_ that require your attention,” she offers with an annoyingly _knowing_ twinkle in her eyes.

His first thought it to dismiss her offer – primarily out of embarrassment that his desire to see the Inquisitor is so obvious to her. But then, Moira is one of Cullen’s most capable soldiers, and since Rylen’s departure to the Western Approach she has become something of a second-in-command – certainly in practice if not in name. He’s confident that the training session would be just as effective under her watchful gaze as his own and, really, it would probably be a good idea for the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces to have an update on the Inquisitor’s progress in the Exalted Plains _as soon as possible_.

He gives a curt nod to Moira, hoping it exudes a steely professionalism. “Thank you, Captain, that would be appreciated. I expect a full report on the progress made by the end of the day.”

“Of course, Commander.” She gives her own curt nod, though he wishes she would stop smiling at him like that, like he’s a small child that she’s caught sneaking cookies from the kitchen.

After a final appraising look over his soldiers, he turns and marches toward the gate, hoping his speed is interpreted as busyness rather than eagerness.

He arrives at the gate just in time to watch the Inquisitor’s party approach, Scout Harding at the front with a smattering of scouts immediately behind her. Anwen and her companions bring up the rear and he feels an immediate rush of relief at the sight of her. He knows it’s foolish – for him to worry so keenly when she is away. She has proven herself _more_ than capable over the many months since the Conclave. And besides, the journey from the Exalted Plains to Skyhold is an easy one, with a heavy Inquisition presence along all the major travel routes – there’s no reason for him to fear the worst.

Except he _can’t help_ but fear the worst; a habit borne from experiencing far too much loss for one of such relative youth.

He smiles as she nears, and she smiles at him in return – though he’s a little displeased to see that the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

She dismounts as soon as she’s within Skyhold’s walls, closing the few steps between them before raising to her tip-toes and pressing a quick kiss against his lips. It’s gentle – and far too brief for his liking – and when she pulls back he can see the faintest of furrows between her brows.

“Something wrong?” he asks, reaching out as if to comfort her. She steps away before he can touch her, turning her back to him and wrapping her horse’s reins around one fist before leading the horse toward the stables.

“No, not at all,” she says over her shoulder, “just tired is all.”

He follows her, his own frown coming to furrow the skin between his brows.

“I take it your journey home was not as easy as predicted?”

She gives a hollow laugh. “I can’t remember the last time anything was easy.”

He expects her to elaborate further but she doesn’t – her oddly evasive answer left lingering alone in the space between them – and Cullen feels his frown deepen into a scowl.

Anwen is often… _calculated_ with her words, saying what she thinks people will want to hear, what she thinks will get her what she wants. She’s careful and cagey and frequently manipulative with people. And maybe she was with him too, _at the start_ – but that was a long time ago. And he thought they’d reached the point where they could be open and honest with each other. It’s frustrating to see that he may have been mistaken.

Anwen walks briskly away from him, not even looking over her shoulder to see whether he follows and Cullen feels, well, _he doesn’t like it_.

She’s normally pretty affectionate. _Polite_ , of course, when in public – too conscious of her public image to do anything that may be construed as vulgar. But she somehow always manages to find some subtle little way to show how much she cares for him; a little squeeze of his fingers, a gentle nudge of her shoulders against his. But this, this _indifference_ , is wholly unlike her.

Cullen loiters near the entrance to the stables, eager to stay out of the way as Dennet and his stable-hands come to greet the Inquisitor’s party and take their mounts, watching the Inquisitor and her companions with analytical interest. It’s not just Anwen, he realises, everyone seems a little… _off_. Dorian and Bull greet him as they pass but their words seem hollow, trite pleasantries rather than genuine efforts at conversation. And now that he gets a good look at her, Scout Harding looks positively _ashen_. As far as he can tell, no one appears to be injured, but there’s definitely a heaviness to the party, a leaden solemnity that hints toward some greater unease.

When the party emerges from the stables he takes a few steps toward Anwen, keen to talk to her and figure out what has happened, hopefully find a way to alleviate her obvious distress. But Harding beats him to her, breaking into a short jog as she tries to catch up with Anwen before she can disappear into the main Keep.

“I ugh… I wanted to say th-thank you, Inquisitor, for s-saving my life.” The stutter comes as a surprise; Cullen’s never heard Harding sound so unsure. She’s usually so confident, perfectly composed. 

“Yes, well, you’re welcome,” Anwen replies, her tone unusually cold. “Just do better in the future. I don’t want you in the field if you’re going to be a liability; I won’t let the Inquisition be undermined by your incompetence.” Harding looks dumbfounded as Anwen steps around her and strides briskly away; dumbfounded and, Cullen can’t help but notice, a little despairing too – there’s a damp sheen to her eyes, and he spots the slightest tremble in her hands before she curls them into fists to hide it.

“Oi,” Sera shouts at Anwen’s retreating back, a sharp scowl pulling at her features. “Shit happens; you don’t need to be such an arse about it.”

“If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it,” Anwen snaps, her pace never once faltering as she marches toward the Keep.

What?! _What in the void is happening?!_

He turns to Dorian, and his distress and confusion must be obvious in his expression because Dorian immediately sighs and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asks, “Did something happen?”

“Just some minor altercation with some Venatori – nothing we can’t handle.”

Dorian pauses as he looks at Bull and Sera, and they exchange some kind of look that Cullen can’t quite decipher. Concern perhaps? Irritation? Cullen’s just about to prompt Dorian for more when he continues, “Harding went down at the start of the fight – quite a… _grisly_ blow in fact. Anwen was able to heal her of course but, well, we were all a bit shaken by it. And then Anwen was hurt-“

“Hurt _how_? How badly?!” Cullen interrupts, realising with growing horror that he was in fact _entirely justified_ in fearing the worst earlier.

Dorian waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing too bad. But she’d used most of her mana healing Harding, which means she wasn’t able to fight off an attack before some Venatori bastard landed a few blows. She’s fine, obviously, just a little upset. Honestly? I think she’s mainly just embarrassed – you know what she’s like when she thinks she’s failed.”

Cullen nods slowly. Dorian’s answer is both a relief and, well… _not_. He’s glad that Anwen is all right but troubled that she had been injured, that her magic had been insufficient to fight off an attack when she’d needed it. And to think that they’d been so close to losing Harding! Her loss would have been sorely felt throughout the Inquisition.

Anwen was right; things never seem easy any more (although, when Cullen really thinks about it, he doesn’t think anything in his life has been easy. Not since before the Blight, before Kinloch Hold).

Dorian pats Cullen’s shoulder companionably as they walk in step toward the Keep. “Don’t worry; I’m sure she’ll be back to her usual charming self in no time.”

Cullen hopes he’s right.

* * *

Consciousness comes to her slowly at first.

There’s a dull thumping at the back of her head, a lingering stiffness in limbs left unmoved for too long. Something digs into her side, hard and sharp through the thin fabric of her jacket.

Then, all at once, things start sharpening into terrifying clarity.

It’s metal digging into her side – _chains,_ she realises – pinned between her body and the ground, chains that connect to the manacles around her wrists. She’s on the ground, limbs akimbo as if she’d been roughly thrown there, the stone jagged and sandy beneath her skin – a cave then, most likely, rather than a building.

There’s little light, only a few lanterns peeking through the gloom, blurred by the oily haze that hangs just below the cave’s ceiling. She can just make out a door on the opposite side of the cave from where she’s slumped, a gnarled plank of wood hanging crookedly in an opening hacked into the rock. It looks pretty flimsy, old and partially rotten, and she’s pretty sure she could break through it with only a small amount of effort.

Anwen feels the first spark of hope at the prospect of escape.

That spark is quickly extinguished as she tries to shift and feels a burst of pain behind her eyes, a burning frisson along her arms and legs. The dull thumping in her head feels more like a throb as sensation begins to return to her conscious mind – she vaguely remembers a blow to the head, falling to the ground. She hadn’t had the mana to heal it, nor the time, as some unexpected foe had lumbered toward her with fists raised. She tries now – tries to sooth her pounding head and numb limbs with the warmth of her healing magic.

Instead, nothing.

No wispy ribbon of power. No curling warmth unspooling behind her ribcage – nothing.

_Oh shit_.

She can feel the rising tide of panic, a great swell of dread threatening to drown her, and suddenly it’s a lot harder to breath.

_Calm yourself, Anwen_ , she chides in her mind, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths. _If you panic now, you’ll only end up dead_.

She _has_ been without her magic before – felt the cold, empty thrall of the Templar’s smite on a number of occasions (and bitterly resented it each time). But this feels different somehow; she’s never known the effects of a smite to last so long and from the numbness in her limbs, she’s clearly been unconscious for quite some time.

Magebane, then; she must have been poisoned.

_Oh shitting balls_.

Well – magic or not, she needs to find a way out of this sodding cave, and Anwen is not the type to just lie and wallow in misery (too proud to accept failure, even in the most dire of situations). So instead she tries to focus on moving, on wriggling some warmth and feeling back into her limbs. She starts with her fingers and toes, gently waggling them back and forth as she works some sensation into them. Next comes her arms and legs, and she takes each limb in turn, moving them inch by inch, back and forth, until she can move them freely without pain. Finally, she pushes herself into a sitting position, taking her time and breathing in slowly as the movement causes her head to swim.

She’s not sure how long it takes her to get completely upright but she suspects it’s been a few hours and the realisation is somewhat disheartening.

She tries another little pull of magic.

Nothing.

Whatever has been done to her, whatever concoction of poison she’s been given, the effects are apparently longer-lasting than she would normally expect. 

Never mind – her magic will come back to her _eventually_. And then whoever has taken her captive will regret all the terrible life choices that led them to this moment as she unleashes a furious storm of lightening and ice. Or maybe she’ll summon her spirit blade – it’s a new technique, her Knight Enchanter training still in its infancy, but she thinks it’ll be particularly cathartic to take down her captors from close range.

The darkness of her thoughts surprises her – Anwen has never considered herself to be particularly blood thirsty – but her panic has slipped away to leave a seething rage in its place. Anger at her captors for having the temerity to take her hostage, anger at herself for being stupid enough to get taken. And so she lets the images play out in her mind – images of her dramatic escape, images of her assailants writhing on the ground with skin left scorched and blackened – as her anger spits and roils.

She is alone for a long time, sitting on the dusty ground of what she now suspects to be some long-abandoned mine (the walls look too even to be natural, cut with an axe rather than eroded by time). The chain which links her manacled hands to the back wall of the cave stops her from exploring her surroundings, forces her to just sit and stew in her shame and discomfort. She tries to move her limbs as much as she can, keen to stop them from going numb again so that they won’t hinder her escape should an opportunity for such present itself. It would be easier if she could just heal herself, rid her head of pain and her limbs from lingering stiffness, but her magic has still not returned.

_Still_. 

When the door finally rattles, she thinks she may have fallen asleep, her head suddenly jerking up at the sound, her head swimming for a second in momentary confusion.

A man walks in, tall enough that he has to stoop to walk through the roughly-hewn doorway. He’s skinny, face gaunt in a way that makes him look striking rather than sickly, cheekbones sharp and chin strong. She’s sure she would recognise him had she seen him before so she’s forced to assume that he is a stranger. He smiles at her as he approaches, and it would have seemed friendly were it not for the way his eyes narrowed, analysing her with a cold, captivated gaze. He’s looking at her the way Solas looks at those strange, ancient orbs, or Dorian looks at his books – as if she’s a curiosity in need of study rather than a living creature.

“Ah, you’re awake I see,” the tall man says as he steps slowly, leisurely, toward her. Anwen bites backs the urge to say something sarcastic, deciding it’s probably best not to antagonise her captors until she can feel her magic returning.

As he gets closer she can see him a little better through the gloom, see his neatly clipped hairstyle and the fine tailoring of his mage robes. They’re showier than what you’d see on a Southern mage, with sharply pointed shoulders and a gaudy abundance of metallic adornments.

Venatori then – though that’s hardly a surprise.

“And what have I done to deserve this audience with the illustrious Venatori?” she sneers, narrowing her eyes in warning.

He only smiles at her, like he’s indulging some small, stupid child. “You took something from my Master, something that you are not worthy to possess. And now he wants it back.”

“Yes, the Anchor, I know.” She gestures with her marked hand as best she can given the chains. “But he’s already tried to take it back and it didn’t work. So either you let me go or just kill me – because I really don’t know what else you’re hoping to get from me.” 

His smile widens, curling into something cruel and _knowing_. “Oh – don’t worry. Death will come… _eventually_. But first I want to see what secrets may yet be revealed by the Anchor. My master thinks you have spoiled it, rendered it useless, but I was at Adamant, _I saw you_ open the Rift to the Fade – and now you’re going to use that power to help Corypheus.”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” she shoots back, voice steely despite her growing unease. Anwen has always been good at keeping her expression neutral, at projecting whatever face she needs to mask her true feelings – she hopes she’s succeeding in doing so now, hopes that she is exuding nothing except a stern resolve, although she fears she can feel the slightest quiver at the corner of her lips.

The tall man laughs and the sound bounces between the walls of the cramped room, adding to the oppressive heaviness of the thick, hazy air.

“Well I didn’t expect it to be easy; you are the _mighty Inquisitor_ after all.” He places undue emphasis on her title, twisting it into something mocking. “But without your magic, you will have no means to resist me and, I assure you, I am _very good_ at getting what I want.”

“The Inquisition will come for me,” she retorts, voice clipped – _seething_ in response to his jeers. “They’ll be looking for me as we speak. And when they find me, they will tear you to shreds with righteous fury.”

He laughs again, this time louder, almost giddy with amusement.

“The Inquisition has no idea you’re missing!” he manages to spit out between snorts of laughter.

That gives Anwen pause – how can the Inquisition not know that she’s missing? She’s the fucking Inquisitor! _Of course_ they know! _Of course_ they’re looking for her! They’re probably close to finding her right now; the Venatori can’t have taken her _that_ far away from the ambush site.

No – this sneering Venatori is just trying to unsettle her – that’s all.

“We’ve sent someone back to Skyhold in your place,” the tall man explains, “none of your little minions have any idea that you’re gone.”

She can feel her face turn pale, disquieted by his words. “What?! How is that even possible?”

“Surely _some_ of you weak, Southern mages have mastered the ability to shapeshift?” He pauses, though Anwen doubts he expects an answer to his question; the pause seems primarily for theatrical effect. “The mages of Tevinter have refined this rare talent into an art form, performing deceptions you couldn’t even fathom. We’ve sent a new Inquisitor back to the Inquisition in your stead – completely indistinguishable in every way.”

She can feel the panic coming back, the icy fingers of fear and doubt ghosting along her spine and pressing deep into her skin. At first she wants to dismiss his words as preposterous – she’s never heard of a Shapeshifter powerful enough to mimic the human form. Such an ability would be a terrifying source of power. But then she remembers something that gives alarming credibility to his words.

“I met Grand Enchanter Fiona at Val Royeaux,” she says, voice frustratingly small to her ears, “but then when I spoke to Fiona at Redcliffe, she claimed to have never met me. She was a Shapeshifter, wasn’t she? The Fiona I met at Val Royeaux – she was a Venatori agent sent to lure me to Redcliffe.” 

“Ah – then you’ve met my associate!” he crows, triumphantly. “And so you know my words to be true.”

A powerful Shapeshifter within the Inquisition?! A powerful Shapeshifter _wearing her face_ , issuing orders _in her name_?! The very thought of it makes her sick. For the Inquisition to be infiltrated right at the very top – she daren’t imagine the chaos this Venatori agent could inspire, the absolute disaster she could set into motion.

_Oh shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	3. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anwen is subjected to Venatori experiments while her copycat causes mayhem back at Skyhold.
> 
> As a heads up - this chapter starts with a brief but visceral description of magical torture. If this bothers you, you can skip to the section break about a quarter of the way down.

Anwen’s hand is on fire.

The Anchor flairs and spits across her palm, sending waves of searing, singing heat that licks up her arm from her fingertips to her shoulder. She feels like her hand has been dipped into liquid metal, like her skin and flesh is being peeled layer-by-layer from her body until all that will remain is blackened bone.

And she screams.

_Oh Maker_ , does she scream.

Sounds are wrenched from her mouth with every pulse of the Anchor, every crackling surge of energy. Sometimes loud bellows, sometimes strained whimpers or groans that blur into senseless babble – they’re all dragged through clenched teeth until her throat is left dry and raw.

She wants it to stop.

_She wants it to stop_.

Except she knows what happens when the pain stops. 

That’s when they feed her strange concoctions, pinching her nose and stroking her throat to force it all down. She’s not even sure what she’s drinking. Sometimes she recognises the tang of Lyrium – but it’s mixed with other stuff, sometimes bitter, sometimes cloyingly sweet. One time it _scalded_ , settling in her stomach with such scorching intensity she thought she would burn from the inside out. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s been strapped down – wrists and ankles straining against metal cuffs, her skin blistering as she struggles against her bindings – but she’s not sure how much longer her body can last, how much pain it can endure before it tears itself apart with one final agonising spasm.

She doesn’t even know what they want; doesn’t know what will satisfy them, what will  _make the pain stop_. She knows it has something to do with the Anchor, with opening a Rift like the one she’d opened at Adamant – but that had been an accident, a flare of power in the heat of the moment, when death had seemed all but inevitable. She has no idea whether she can do it again, or how the poison and the pain is supposed to help. All she knows is that the Anchor is _burning_.

Flashes of green illuminate the faces of the Venatori that encircle her, giving their features a ghoulish pallor before the light sparks out and they’re lost again in the murkiness. She can’t really see much around her, her vision swimming from the pain, but she thinks she can pick out nearly a dozen different people around her, nodding sagely as they scribble notes, rubbing their temples in careful though. 

Sometimes she catches sight of the tall man – and he just _smiles_.

“Enough,” comes a voice from… somewhere. “Let’s try something else.” 

The pain stops and – _oh blessed Andraste_ – Anwen has never been more grateful for anything in her entire life. She knows it is only a temporary respite though, a precious moment of peace, and she fears that what she has endured so far is merely a preview of what is yet to come.

There is shuffling around her, and she can sense more than see the figures as they move around the table to which she’s been chained. There are murmurs, quiet conversations, then the clinking of glass. 

“Try this,” comes a voice, a woman’s perhaps, soft and reedy.   

Something cool touches Anwen’s lips and she tries to turn her head, straining against the shackles that bind her in place. But then she feels firm hands framing her face, keeping her in place while another hand yanks at her jaw. Something sharp and sour courses down her throat, leaving an oddly metallic taste at the back of her tongue, and she spits and sputters in a vain attempt to stop herself from swallowing. It’s no use – strong fingers pinch her nose, hold her mouth shut, and she must choose between swallowing or suffocating.

Someone leans over the table, smiling at her with a wide, toothy grin. She knows this face – is far too familiar with each sharply angled feature; it’s the tall man. “Now, now – why must you make everything so difficult?” he asks with a little shake to his head, “if you would only cooperate, we wouldn’t have to hurt you so.”

She tries to answer him – _I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t know how to control the Anchor_ – but only a broken moan escapes her lips.

His smile only grows, splitting his face until it appears grotesque and inhuman in the quivering light of the oil lanterns that line the walls. “Very well – we shall have to try again.”

He steps back, out of sight, and she can hear him issuing orders, though she can only make out a few words: “again… arcane power… unique reaction…”

There’s no warning when the pain resumes – just one moment it’s gone and the next it is there, surging and soaring and crowding her senses until she feels full to bursting.

This time it doesn’t burn – this time the pain crackles and bites, tearing and nipping like she’s being eaten alive.

She tries to think of pleasanter things, tries to force her thoughts to wander – an escape from this torture, if only in her mind. It’s the only way she’s been able to cope so far, the only survival method she has devised while her magic still hides beyond her reach. She pushes her thoughts beyond the pain, beyond the craggy walls of this miserable cave and out across Thedas towards home. She thinks of Skyhold, of blossom-capped trees and her favourite spot in the garden by the pond. She thinks of the Herald’s Rest, and games of Wicked Grace played into the early hours of the morning, of the smiling faces of her friends as they drink their drinks and share their stories.

She thinks of Cullen – sweet, precious Cullen – and prays that he is all right, that the imposter sent to Skyhold in her place leaves him unharmed. She thinks of the warmth held in his honey-coloured eyes, the way his scar crinkles when he smiles, the way his palm seems to fit so naturally at the small of her back. She thinks of their chess game, still waiting in her room for her return, and how insufferably smug he’ll look when he beats her _again_.

Reaching out beyond the pain – the crackling and the biting and the stinging sharpness – Anwen instead thinks of Cullen, and distracts herself trying to imagine what Cullen is doing at this very moment.

* * *

Cullen watches as Anwen paces alongside the War Table, looking peculiarly distant with her arms crossed and head bowed.

Josephine is reciting her latest report – speaking in bright, almost cheerful tones as she informs the council of the war that has been narrowly avoided along the Tevinter-Navarra border – but he’s not sure that Anwen’s really listening. She makes no eye contact with her advisers, makes no sounds of either assent or disagreement – just strides back and forth along the length of the table.

It’s odd – he’s never seen her act this way at a War Council before. Normally Anwen stands smartly at attention, listening intently to her advisors, nodding in agreement or pursing her lips in thought. When she’s really trying to concentrate, she’ll kneel down until her eyes are in line with the tabletop – as if the new perspective will provide her with some sudden inspiration on the best course of action (and, miraculously, it usually does). But today she seems a million miles away, never stopping, always moving, fidgeting with uncharacteristic nervousness.

“Thanks to the work of hundreds of negotiators and allies – not to mention a few personal connections – Nevarra and Tevinter have issued orders for their soldiers to return to their respective cities. The contested land has been split down the middle and the area is, by all accounts, peaceful – if somewhat tense.” Josephine underlines something in her ledger once she’s finished speaking, then looks up at Anwen expectantly.

Anwen paces for a few more moments then suddenly stops and turns to face her Ambassador. “Very good, Josephine. Make sure to pass on my gratitude to our people.”

Ah – so she _is_ listening.

"Oh – and what rewards have our efforts reaped?” she adds, almost as an after-thought.

Josephine looks a little startled by the question, eyes widening and brows arching. “We have averted a war – there is no higher reward to ask for.”

“And have we tried? Asking that is? Have we tried asking for a reward?”

“No, I… Inquisitor, I’m not really sure what you’re asking. Who would we—"

“Contact the nobles along the border,” Anwen interrupts, “inform them of our efforts in avoiding war and ask for some compensation in return. They should be grateful to us after we brought peace to their lands – and if they’re not grateful, we send a few soldiers to _make_ them grateful.”

Cullen and Leliana exchange a look, part confusion and part concern.

“Are you suggesting we _extort_ the local nobility after they gave us their support in negotiating peace?” Josephine asks, and though she’s trying to sound polite, Cullen can hear in her voice how distasteful she considers such a proposition.

“I’m suggesting you _do your job_ and get the Inquisition the resources it needs to carry out its sacred duty. Do you have a problem with that?”

Cullen starts – utterly astounded to hear Anwen speak to Josephine in such a manner.

Beside him, he can feel Leliana bristle, and when he risks glancing at her, he can see her eyes narrow warningly in her otherwise neutral expression.

When Leliana speaks, Cullen’s impressed at her ability to sound civil when she’s so clearly riled. “Inquisitor, I don’t think—"

Anwen cuts her off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I don’t care what you think; I’ve listened to enough opinions for one day.” Anwen turns and, without preamble or warning, stalks out of the room, calling over her shoulder as she pushes through the door, “this meeting is over – it’s lasted too fucking long already.”

She leaves a stunned silence in her wake, her three advisors staring wide-eyed at the wooden door as it slams shut behind her. There’s a pause – none daring to speak – until finally Leliana turns to the others, face a mix of fury and confusion. 

“What in the Maker’s name was that?”

Cullen wishes he knew.

Anwen’s seemed… _strange_ since her return from the Exalted Plains, _distracted_ perhaps, but her behaviour during the War Council this morning had been utterly incomprehensible. She’d been disinterested at best, downright rude at worst – and her parting blow to Josephine was so startlingly out-of-character that Cullen fears her recent injury at the hands of the Venatori may have been more severe than originally believed.

“Something is certainly… amiss,” Cullen says, choosing his words carefully to avoid appearing overdramatic. “She hardly spoke a word last night at dinner and she missed breakfast this morning because she overslept.” There’s a pause, and when he starts speaking again his voice is much quieter, as if talking more to himself than the room. “Anwen _never_ oversleeps; she’s the most obnoxiously cheerful morning person I’ve ever met…” 

“Well I think we all knew this day might come,” Leliana says with a somewhat wearied shake of her head.

“What day?” Josephine asks.

“For months now she’s been shouldering an enormous burden. First as the Herald, now the Inquisitor. Close the breach, end a civil war, stop Corypheus from plunging the entire world into darkness and chaos – every day there’s some new catastrophe awaiting her. It shouldn’t be a surprise that one day she’d… falter.”

_Falter?_

_Is that it? Has Anwen finally reached her limits?_

Cullen supposes that Leliana could be right. To carry the entire fate of Thedas upon her narrow shoulders must exact a heavy price. And, if he’s honest, he _has_ been expecting this day to come. As much as he admires Anwen, as proud as he is of all her achievements, he knows she is only human – and no human, no matter how brilliant, can keep fighting all these months without the exertion taking its toll.

“I’ll… speak to her?” Cullen offers, “or… perhaps she would prefer her space?” He shakes his head – feeling suddenly lost. Their relationship is still relatively new – wonderful and tender and _perfect_ – but still new, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. What he _does know_ is that Anwen is proud and stubborn, that she hates appearing weak or vulnerable, especially in front of him (which is ridiculous – as if someone as broken as him could possibly think less of someone for being merely cracked).

He decides that a direct confrontation is probably best to be avoided. He’ll wait – give her some space – and when she’s ready to let him in, he’ll be there waiting to support her however he can.

“Do what you can,” Josephine says, voice gentle, one hand raising to rest companionably on his shoulder. “And we’ll do what we can as well. If you can think of some way we can help, you only need to ask. And… I’ll probably refrain from contacting the Nevarran nobles, at least until Anwen has cooled somewhat.”

Cullen nods, a faint smile managing to work its way onto his lips – immensely grateful to have Josephine and Leliana’s support. Sure the two women seem to take far too great a delight in teasing him (and he’s sure Mia would be relieved to know that someone has taken on her mantle in her absence) but after the almost crippling solitude of Kirkwall’s Gallows, it’s nice to know that he now has people watching his back.

When he leaves the War Room he feels, well, mollified – if not exactly comforted.

He’d planned on working on some reports after the War Council meeting – there’s a stack of paperwork on his desk so towering he fears it may soon endanger his life should a gust of wind send it toppling down – but he doesn’t think he’s in the right frame of mind for it now.

Instead he seeks out Moira, challenges her to a bout in the sparring ring with a teasing joviality he doesn’t feel. If she can see the tension behind his eyes, read the lie behind his forced cheerfulness, she doesn’t mention it – only smiles crookedly and accepts his challenge with hasty readiness.

Things feel better in the sparring ring, with his sword in his hand and sweat inching down his spine. They’ve both forgone their armour, shields too, choosing instead to focus purely on swordplay. It had been his suggestion – the pace is faster without heavy armour, and that’s what he wants. He doesn’t want to be patient, doesn’t want to carefully consider his next attack or sensibly ration his movements to prolong his stamina – he wants to dash and slash, drive forward, reel back – he wants to push himself to the point of exhaustion so he doesn’t have any energy left to worry about Anwen and her peculiar behaviour.

The grin that had spread across Moira’s lips when he’d first challenged her has long since fled – instead she sucks in ragged breaths, her face contorted in deep concentration. Moira can thrash most of the Inquisition’s soldiers with little effort, mouth curved in a smile and eyes alight with amusement – but Cullen isn’t the usual Inquisition soldier, and it’s oddly rewarding to remind himself that _this_ is why _he’s_ the Commander.

Cullen is still going strong several hours into their sparring session and when he manages to knock Moira to the ground _again_ , leaning over her to press his blade against her throat in simulation of the ending blow, she doesn’t even try to resist before gasping out a breathless, “I yield!” He shifts his sword to his off-hand before reaching down to Moira and hefting her back to her feet, giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder in recognition of her fine effort, despite her ultimate defeat.

Moira takes a few moments to walk circuits around the ring, sucking in deep lungfuls of air while pressing a steadying hand to her ribs. Cullen only stands and waits, happy to give her some space while she catches her breath. Her face is turned upward, perhaps trying to hide from him just how exhausted she is, how pained her expression, though he can see her flush spreading all the way from her cheeks down her neck, and the steady rivulets of sweat coursing down her hairline.

“Giving up?” he asks, twisting his sword nonchalantly in his hand.

Moira gives him a glare out of the corners of her eyes, though she doesn’t offer a biting retort like he’d have expected (perhaps too out of breath to speak).

Taking pity on the young woman, he walks to the edge of the sparring ring, places his sword down on a low bench and picks up a canteen of water. He turns and offers the canteen to Moira, chuckling softly when she practically snatches it out of his hands, a look of desperate longing on her face. She nods her thanks before tipping her head back, gulping greedily at the proffered drink while dribbles of water snake down her chin. 

Cullen turns to fetch his own canteen and is startled to find Cole instead, sitting primly on the bench, Cullen’s canteen gripped tightly by pale, spidery fingers.

“Can I have that?” Cullen asks tartly.

The spirit-boy unnerves him, though he tries to be civil (mostly at Anwen’s insistence; she is oddly protective of him).

Cole hands him the canteen and he takes it somewhat gingerly, sniffing cautiously at the contents when he pops the cork (not that he expects the spirit to have tampered with his drink; it just seems like something he should do, just to be safe).

“You think you can make it right by fighting. Push out the anxious thoughts until all you feel is tiredness. But it won’t work; you can’t fix her when she’s not broken.” Cole tips his head back so that he can look at Cullen from below the wide brim of his hat. The whole effect is rather unsettling; the cryptic words, the oddly intense stare.

“Yes, well, thank you for that,” Cullen says, though he’s not sure he means it, “now if you don’t mind; I’m busy.”

“You don’t understand; this is important,” Cole insists, now rising from his seat and stepping forward. “You want to help her, want to piece together the parts of her, hold them in place until the cracks disappear. But you can’t fix her when she’s not broken.” The spirit is looking at him almost plaintively, as if desperately trying to articulate something but struggling to find the right words. 

“You’re talking about Anwen,” Cullen says, now unexpectedly intrigued in what Cole has to say. If the spirit knows something about Anwen, Cullen _needs_ to know it too. “She’s not herself right now. She’s unwell or… tired, perhaps… from the burden of being Inquisitor.”

“No, no, no,” Cole cries, growing increasingly agitated, “not unwell. Not tired. She’s not herself; _she’s someone else_.”

“Yes – that’s what I just said; she’s not herself right now.”

Cole is shaking his head, muttering _no no no_ again and again, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso in an attempt, perhaps, to comfort himself. Cullen’s just about to ask Cole a question, to try and find some sense among the unintelligible mumbling, when suddenly he hears a loud crash from inside the Herald’s Rest. 

Cole stops his chanting, his head jerking up in the direction of the tavern. “She’s not broken but she can break things around her. Precious things.” He turns to look at Cullen, fixing him with a glare that would be full of meaning if Cullen could only decipher it. “I can’t help her; I don’t know where she is. But you can find her – because you know her.”

Cullen glances toward the tavern then back at Cole only to find that he’s disappeared. He quickly scans across the yard, head sweeping from side-to-side but finding nothing (and one would think the hat would be pretty hard to miss).

“What did he want?” Moira asks from over his shoulder.

Cullen shrugs, confused and unnerved and suddenly feeling strangely powerless. “I have no idea. But—" he looks back at the tavern when he hears another muffled crash from inside, “I’m going to see what that ruckus is all about. Thank you for the practice,” he adds as he strides passed her. Moira nods at him in response, eyes slanted with concern as he departs. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting inside the tavern, but it certainly wasn’t what he finds.

A crowd has gathered on the ground floor, the tavern’s patrons all craning their neck to see the drama unfolding on the first floor. He can hear raised voices, and he can see Anwen gesturing wildly with her hands, and – _Maker_ – things are being thrown from Sera’s nook, books and pillows and assorted trinkets turned into makeshift projectiles, all of them aimed toward the Inquisitor. 

The Iron Bull and a few of his Chargers stand warily at the foot of the stairs, as if undecided whether to intervene or merely watch. Cullen pushes through them, taking the steps two at a time so that he can reach the altercation as soon as possible and – well, he has no idea – _do something_.

“Get your smug, self-important face away from me!” he hears Sera yell as another book is sent flinging through the air. Anwen steps to the side, dodging the book by mere inches.

“For an archer, your aim is pretty piss-poor!” Anwen retorts with a smirk, arms spread wide as if inviting another attack.

“Why you pompous, trumped-up gobshite!”

Cullen steps between the two women, palms raised placatingly, and gets a candlestick in his ribs for his trouble. He looks over his shoulder to give Sera a warning glare and she lowers the teapot now clutched in her hands (though, he notes, doesn’t let go of it).

“What is going on here?!” he roars.

“She’s out of her fucking mind,” Anwen snaps, “isn’t that obvious?”

“ _I’m_ out of my fucking mind?” Sera is practically bouncing with restless rage. “ _You’re_ the one who’s being a total shit-heel – pissing on the little guys; punching down.”

“I’m trying to save the fucking world, Sera, sometimes the little guys are just shit out of luck!”

“Shut up, the both of you!” Cullen snaps, and he never thought he’d be in a situation where he’d be yelling at the Inquisitor like he would an unruly child. “Now… explain to me what’s going on. What started all this?” 

Anwen huffs as she crosses her arms, but before she can respond to Cullen’s question, Sera answers. “Her Gracious Ladybits has decided not to send a battalion to Verchiel – it’s apparently beneath the Inquisition’s attention.”

Cullen is a little stunned by Sera’s words – Anwen has already requested for the battalion to march; she’d said as such in her most recent letter. Why would she suddenly change her mind now? (and why wouldn’t she tell him?)

“And _now_ she’s decided that the Inquisition doesn’t need the Red Jennies – apparently Lady Magic-hands here has her sacred, fancy-pants status to protect.” Sera gives a mocking little bow then gestures rudely with her hands.

“When I recruited you, I expected people,” Anwen says, “but instead all I’ve got is _you_ – your immature ramblings and petty pranks. You and your whole organisation is just a stain on the Inquisition’s fine reputation.”

Sera’s low growl is all the warning Cullen gets before the teapot goes flying and Sera flings herself from the threshold of her room, fingers curled like claws as she reaches toward Anwen. Cullen grabs her by the waist, holds her tight against his chest to stop whatever this is from descending into an outright brawl.

Anwen doesn’t look shocked by the attempted attack. Instead she only stands there, serene and _smiling_.

“Let me go, Cullen!” Sera cries as she squirms in his grasp. Cullen thinks that would be a decidedly terrible idea and just holds on tighter.

Anwen takes a few steps forward, face so calm and gentile that it seems almost chilling. Sera stills as she nears, though rage still seeps from her in waves.

“Get out,” Anwen says, low and warning.

Cullen and Sera both respond at the same time with a startled, “what?!” 

“I said – _get out_. Get out of this tavern, get out of Skyhold. We don’t need traitorous _peasants_ like you in the Inquisition.”

Cullen’s not sure whether Sera managed to wriggle out of his grasp or whether he dropped her from shock but the next thing he knows, Sera is storming away, knocking Anwen sharply with her shoulder as she passes. She stops at the top of the stairs, looks straight at Cullen while pointing at Anwen.

“That’s not her!” she shouts (not that she needs to; the tavern is so deathly silent he’d be able to hear her even if she whispered). “Anni can be a stuck-up bitch sometimes but she’s not that fucking monster. She’s wrong – she’s… _possessed_ or something!”

Cullen feels his spine prickle at the mention of possession. Sure Anwen’s been acting strangely but that doesn’t mean she’s possessed! She _can’t_ be possessed; not Anwen – not _his_ Anwen – not the only thing he’s had in his whole life that hasn’t been corrupted.

He feels a sudden surge of anger – or maybe it’s fear – and then he’s shouting back at Sera before he even realises what he’s doing. “Anwen is the Inquisitor and you will speak to her with the respect that she deserves!” 

Sera’s face falls, features twisting into an expression of hopeless frustration. Cullen’s never thought Sera particularly fond of him but her disappointment surprises him, and he finds himself feeling oddly ashamed.

“Oh pissing shit!” she snaps before hurrying down the stairs, pushing her way through the crowd to leave the tavern as quickly as possible. Bull follows after her, wearing the same expression of confusion and anger that Anwen seems to be invoking wherever she goes today.

Slowly, Cullen turns to look at Anwen, and for a startling moment he realises he barely recognises the woman in front of him. She looks eerily calm – body relaxed, eyes bright, a gentle smile playing on her lips. She does not look like a woman who’s just asked one of her closest friends to leave and never come back.

Cullen feels the first shiver of doubt starting to creep up his spine. Sera’s words needle at the back of his mind – _possession_ – could Anwen be possessed? She’d been injured in a Venatori attack; Dorian had said her mana was too depleted to defend herself. Could she have made some desperate pact to save her life?

No – _No_. The mere thought is preposterous. Not Anwen. _Not her_.

He’s seen her march toward almost certain death, striding from the Chantry to face an Archdemon and a demi-God among the burning wreckage of Haven. He’s seen her cut through walls of demons at Adamant, exhausted and spent but still somehow able to pull dazzling arcs of magic from her hands. She’s travelled through time, she’s walked bodily in the Fade, she’s pieced his jagged edges together and made him feel whole again – someone that strong, _that defiant_ , does not give in to the thrall of possession. 

And yet.

When she turns her softly smiling face toward him, he can feel the heavy weight of fear start to settle in the pit of his stomach. The sweat patch on the back of his shirt has gone cold (and, _Maker_ , does his sparring session with Moira seem like a lifetime ago); the damp fabric sticks to his skin, the chafing sensation only adding to his growing discomfort.

He narrows his eyes at her, a challenge, and she quirks her head to the side in silent question; the very picture of innocence. It only takes a few steps to bridge the space between them and then he leans in close and growls in her ear, “we need to talk.”

He grabs her by the hand and pulls her after him as he storms out of the Herald’s Rest, taking her up through the attic door so that he doesn’t have to face the murmuring crowds below. She doesn’t resist as he leads her across the battlements to his tower, though he worries what it must look like to the people in Skyhold’s yards; the Inquisitor being dragged through her own fortress by her fuming Commander.

When he reaches the privacy of his tower, he makes sure to take the time to lock all the doors before finally turning on her.

“Please, Anwen,” he begs, “explain to me what in the Void is going on.”

She arches her brow while crinkling her nose, seeming almost affronted by his request. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

He’d hoped for an apology; instead her response leaves him feeling deflated. “No – you don’t _have_ to explain yourself to me. But I would like you to all the same. I’m – it’s… it’s _me_ , Anni. You can tell me anything; I’ll understand. Just – _please_ – please talk to me.”

“Sera and I have always butted heads. Her departure was inevitable.” 

“She’s one of your closest friends!” he insists, “you love her.”

He’s surprised when Anwen scoffs. “I don’t love her. She was useful – until she wasn’t – and then I asked her to leave.”

His mouth opens but there are no words.

He’s never heard Anwen sound so… _mercenary_. Sure, Anwen likes to think of herself as practical, likes to make well-reasoned decisions after careful consideration and analysis – but she is, at heart, an idealist (Varric likes to joke she’s read too many fanciful novels) and he has never heard her speak of her companions with anything other than pride and unparalleled affection.

“This isn’t like you,” he says, voice soft and _wounded_ , “the Anwen I know doesn’t discard people when she’s done with them, the Anwen I know doesn’t snap at Josephine for doing her job or scold Scout Harding for an incident that was outside of her control. These people are your _family_ , Anni, and I know there is nothing you value more.”

She looks at him with such a level expression, it’s like her eyes are piercing straight through him. “Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

She’s still wearing that insufferable smile when she walks away from him, head held high, chin jutting proudly. She unlocks the door leading to the bridge to Skyhold’s main Keep, pauses with the door half open, then looks over her shoulder and _sneers_.

“I have to make the decisions that no one else will. I have to protect the Inquisition from any threats to its power, even threats from within. If you can’t understand that – that’s not my concern. But I won’t let anyone stand in my way, not even you.”

She slams the door behind her as she leaves and the sound echoes around Cullen’s tower with startling finality. He feels as if something has ended, as if something precious has been irretrievably cast aside.

He feels unfathomably empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	4. Lightning and Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets himself into trouble and Anwen gets angry.

Cullen can’t sleep.

Not that this is a novel turn of events but, still, it’s annoying.

He rolls to his left side, hoping the position will prove more comfortable. Nothing.

He turns back to his right. Still nothing.

Perhaps he’s too hot? He pulls of his night-shirt and throws it into one of the darkened corners of his room. Still no help.

He grabs one of his rather threadbare pillows and gives it a thorough shake, plumping the feathers inside before dropping it back on his bed and nuzzling his cheek into the downy softness. Still no help.

He growls with irritation. Nothing has helped – and he _knows_ nothing _will_ help.

Because it’s not his pillow that’s keeping him awake, nor his shirt, nor his sleeping position. For once, it’s not even the nightmares – his lyrium withdrawals have been blessedly bearable the last few days.

No – it’s Anwen who’s keeping him awake; Anwen who’s consuming his thoughts (and not in the good way, as she often does at night). He’s replaying their earlier argument again and again, trying to identify the moment it all went irretrievably wrong, trying to figure out whether he could have said anything different, anything… _better_. But he’s at a loss, so confused by Anwen’s altered behaviour that he cannot possibly make sense of it.

And so he just lies there instead – stewing in his thoughts – and prays for sleep to come and free him from his gnawing anxiety.

He’s so distracted by the spectacle running again and again in his head – cruel words bitten between sneering teeth, impossibly calm smile upon her lips, an almost pitying expression as her blue eyes pierce into him – that he doesn’t realise someone is in his tower until he hears the ladder to his bedroom creak.

Immediately all thoughts of Anwen are pushed aside and he bolts upright, reaching for the sword propped up against the side of his bed. He may not be a Templar anymore but his training has prepared him well for moments such as this, piercing through the fogginess of exhaustion and leaving him alert and wary.

Whatever emergency requires his attention, whatever intruder has dared trespass in his tower – Cullen is ready.

He relaxes when he sees Anwen’s head appear at the top of the ladder, the red tones in her hair catching in the moonlight that streams through the broken roof above them. He loosens his grip on the hilt of his sword and lets it fall back against the headboard, the tension bleeding from his body as he watches her climb into his room. But – _Maker_ – what is she doing here?!

She’s clearly not in a hurry – taking each rung at a leisurely pace, a gentle smile playing on her lips. No emergency requiring his immediate attention then. And there’s an odd expression on her face, her features soft and open but her eyes narrowed with a strange intensity, hooded and heated and – oh, _oh_.

Well… this is – _interesting_.

They’d been taking their relationship slowly so far, limiting more intimate activities to brief ( _far too brief_ ) liaisons in his office. It hadn’t really been a conscious choice, not something they’d explicitly talked about; it had just kind of _happened_. They’d both been so busy after the fall of Haven – finding the Wardens, storming Adamant – they simply hadn’t had the time to… _enjoy_ each other.

He wants to though. _Maker, how he wants to_.

He _wants_ with such burning intensity, he’s amazed he hasn’t already been struck down with the Maker’s righteous fury (and isn’t that what the Chantry said would happen?).

His first thought as Anwen reaches the top of the ladder is that she’s _beautiful_ – her pale skin illuminated by shards of silvered light, her blue eyes piercing through the darkness. She’s only wearing a light night-shift, something silky and filmy and almost certainly Orlesian, and a blush spreads across Cullen’s cheeks when he realises that he can see the outline of her bare figure through the fabric.

His second thought is that Anwen’s never been in his room before, and he suddenly wishes he’d put a bit more thought into his accommodations. Cullen is used to sparse, used to the modest accommodations that are standard for those in the Templar Order, but Anwen is a noble and, as the plush décor she’d chosen for the Great Hall attests, fond of nice things. He now wishes he’d thrown down a few more rugs, maybe hung up a painting or two. At the very least, he wishes he’d let Gatsi repair the hole in his roof (it had just seemed a far lower priority compared to other repairs around the Keep).

But concern over his minimalist approach to interior decorating is quickly pushed aside because _Anwen is slinking toward his bed_ , her gently smile tugging into something crooked and coy, and Cullen is all too aware of the growing heat unspooling in the pit of his belly. 

Their earlier argument stops playing in his mind, the anger and the ugly words simmering away, and instead more pleasant images start to appear – Anwen’s skin under his hands, her hair cascading down bared shoulders, her delicate fingers plucking at the laces of his breeches. He’s imagined this exact scenario a dozen times, not to mention all the variations. Sometimes she comes to him while he’s working behind his desk; sometimes they spar together in the training ring; sometimes _he’s_ the one who goes to _her_ room, falling to his knees and professing his most ardent desire for her. No matter the beginning, the ending is always the same – Anwen writhing beneath him, back arched and fingers digging into his shoulders. 

And yet – as much as he has imagined this moment, and as excited as he is to see it finally coming true, there is a niggling sensation of _wrongness_ at the back of his head. Because the last time he’d seen Anwen, they’d had a bitter argument, and her words had hurt – _still hurt_. And though he desperately wants to reach out and touch her, to slowly slip her nightgown from her shoulders and press his lips to each inch of newly exposed skin, he is more desperate to know _just what in the Void_ is going on between them.

When Anwen reaches the foot of his bed, she carefully clambers on top, crawling across the sheets on all fours, and Cullen is impressed at the steadiness of his voice when he finally finds his words and asks, “what are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want us to go to bed angry with each other,” she replies, and she’s close enough now to stroke her fingers down his cheek, caressing down his jaw, then neck, until they finally come to rest on his bared chest.

He shivers.

“I’m not angry with you,” he says, then cringes at the lie. “All right – I _am_ angry with you. I just… I want to understand what’s going on. You’re not acting—"

She silences him with a kiss, soft lips canted against his own. It’s gentle at first, almost chaste, until she raises both hands to frame his face and he starts to feel the intensity growing, the rising pressure as she presses her lips more firmly. Whatever words he’d wanted to say are quickly lost, lost to sensation, lost in the heat of her kiss, in the heat of _her_. His hands lift of their own volition, fingers running along her arms before curling around her shoulders, pulling ever so gently to bring her closer. He smiles when he feels her tongue swipe against his lower lip, pleased by her eagerness, and he opens his mouth to let her in, happily deepening the kiss.

He can feel a moan building at the back of his throat, a slow but deliberate stirring between his legs, and he wants nothing more than to pull her onto his lap and let his hands wander down, down, down. Instead he surprises himself by pushing her back, and she frowns at him petulantly as the kiss is broken. 

“Wait – just a second – _wait_.” His hands still rest on her shoulders, though now they hold her at arm’s length.

She sighs in frustration. “Wait for what?” Then her expression shifts, from something surly to something strangely fragile. “Don’t you want me?”

He feels something patter in his chest. _Maker – what a question_. Thoughts of her have invaded his mind, both day and night, since those early days at Haven, long before he discovered how smart she was, or how funny, when he was still consumed with the realisation that she was, quite simply, stunning. Yes, he wants her, _wants this_ , more than perhaps he’s wanted anything except to join the Templar Order as a boy.

But there’s still that niggling voice at the back of his mind – _just not like this_.

“Maker’s breath, of course I want you. I have… dreamt of this moment for—" he chuckles, the blush on his cheeks spreading down to his neck, “far longer than I dare to admit.” She smiles, a little shy, but more achingly like the Anwen he knows than anything he’s seen since her return from the Exalted Plains. “But can we please just talk first? Some… _things_ … were said earlier and I think we need to talk about them before…” He trails off, the right words lost just out of reach. It’s not his most eloquent of speeches – but then he’s not sure eloquence was ever going to be possible when there’s a near naked Anwen kneeling next to him in bed.

“What’s there to talk about?” she asks, and she tries to lean forward but his hands hold her firmly in place. “I said some things when I was angry – things that I didn’t mean – and now I’m here to apologise.” 

“You didn’t mean – what you said to me or what you said to Sera?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead one hand starts to stroke slowly along his thigh, and even through his blanket he can feel the heat of her skin. His arms start to bend, seemingly forgetting that they were supposed to be keeping her away, and this time when she leans forward, he leans forward to meet her, their lips crushing together clumsily. This kiss is hungrier than the last, teeth and tongues clashing with a hurried heat, her hands tangling into his hair almost possessively.

Somehow, miraculously, he manages to break away from the kiss long enough to croak out, “wait, wait – you didn’t answer my question.”

She hushes him with a _sshh_ before shifting her weight and sliding into his lap, straddling him between her legs as she dips in for another searing kiss. He’s desperately hard now, any questions or concerns immediately banished as he feels the weight of her pressing against him. She shifts her hips as if trying to make herself comfortable and the movement sends a jolt of heat through him, crackling and burning like the lightning he knows she favours on the battlefield.

Her fingers twist, yanking at his curls, and he lets out a hiss of pain that is lost in their enjoined mouths. She’s being… _rougher_ than usual, tugging at him with peculiar urgency. And the kiss is – well… it’s not quite right either. It’s less eager and more… _angry_ , lips pressing with almost bruising force. She bites at his bottom lip and _it hurts_ , the distinctive coppery taste of blood suddenly blossoming on the tip of his tongue.

His head jolts back, shocked mainly but also a little riled. Anwen may be prone to the occasional playful nip but – _this_? Anwen has never actually drawn blood before.

“Stop – wait. We need to talk about what’s going on with you.”

She rolls her hips against his, firm and deliberate, and despite his frustration, Cullen can’t help the needy moan that’s shudders through his lips. One of her hands slips free of his hair, winding its way down his torso before coming to rest on the bulge that’s prominent even through his breeches and the blanket pooled around his waist.

She growls into his ear, “I don’t want to talk – I want you to _fuck me_.”

_Wait – what?!_

She’s looking at him slyly, smirking crookedly, and something about her expression is so alien to him that he can’t help but remember what Cole had said to him earlier in the day: _she’s someone else._

Her hand starts to work its way under the blanket to the waistband of his breeches and his own hand suddenly snaps out to stop her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He holds her firmly in place, staring intently at her face in search of… _something_.

“I said _stop_ , Anwen – what are you doing?!”

The smile falls from her face and there’s nothing coy or sly in her expression now – only a burning fury; like a cornered animal about to lash out. Her eyes are boring into him, that familiar, striking blue, until suddenly he notices a flash of gold – for the barest fraction of a second he’s looking into _someone else’s eyes_ – and in his shock he throws Anwen off him and sends her tumbling to the floor.

She hits the wooden slats with a hard thud and Cullen should feel guilty for having so unceremoniously thrown her aside except _he can’t_ because he’s consumed with the sudden, _terrifying_ realisation that _this is not Anwen_. It’s an abomination or a demon wearing her skin or… he has no idea what it could be but he does know, _without a doubt_ , that the woman lying haphazardly on the floor of his bedroom is not Anwen Trevelyan.

“Who _are_ you?” he asks, and though he can feel his rage beginning to bubble up inside, the question sounds more scared than angry.

She smiles at him again, sickeningly sweet (and he has no idea how this creature can turn Anwen’s face into something so horrifyingly chilling), before she lifts one hand and Cullen’s whole world turns sideways.

Something hard hits him square in the chest and Cullen is sent flying across his room, arching over his bed before slamming into the stone wall and sliding into a heap on the floor. He grunts, clutching his hands to his now aching stomach. _Stonefist_ he thinks, even through the haze of pain, and he starts pouring through memories of his Templar training to try and remember the other abilities associated with Primal magic.

Not-Anwen has now pulled herself from the floor, and as she glares daggers at him from across the bed, he can see a growing ball of sputtering light coalescing in her hands. He remembers _Lightning_ just in time, throwing himself into a clumsy roll as her attack expends itself uselessly against the wall behind where he’d been standing mere moments before.

He gets to his feet quickly, dashing around the end of his bed and tackling Not-Anwen to the floor. His sword is still out of reach, resting against his headboard where he’d left it, and though he has little choice in the matter, it seems like a peculiar form of foolishness to attempt to take on a clearly powerful mage with just his fists. 

She thrashes violently against his grip, desperately trying to wriggle free, but he holds steady, easily trapping the far smaller woman. Then he feels her hands press against his torso and there’s a sudden explosion of pain, a frisson of energy as she unleashes electricity directly into his flesh.

His body spasms from the searing, scorching agony, and the hoarse roar that’s torn from his throat is so loud that he can _feel_ it rattling in his ears. He finds himself wishing desperately for his Templar abilities, the power to snuff out this woman’s magic with only a thought, to save himself from this torment. But giving up Lyrium has been his choice to make, and a choice he’d made gladly, and if this pain is another thing he has to suffer in exchange for his freedom, he will gladly pay the price.

Even with the tossing and writhing of his body, Not-Anwen is still trapped beneath him, his sheer size and weight keeping her pinned to the floor. When the pain eventually passes, her spell sizzling out like a snuffed candle, he rounds on her with a snarl and violently backhands her.

Her body goes limp beneath him, finally calm in her unconsciousness.

Cullen drags his aching body upright – stiff and sore and smelling a little charred – and looks down at the assailant wearing his Anwen’s face. He is… confused to say the least. Utterly baffled that someone (or some _thing_ ) could so seamlessly mimic another’s form. But behind the confusion there’s a plethora of other emotions: anger, that he had been so thoroughly deceived; shame, that he’d allowed baser thoughts to overwhelm his common sense; but most of all there’s fear – a crushing, suffocating fear.

Because if this thing lying on his bedroom floor is not his Anwen, then where in the Void is the _real_ Anwen?!

_Oh Maker_ , he prays, _please do not let her be dead_.

* * *

Anwen wraps her arms around her knees and pulls them closer, tucking her head down until she’s bent into a tight ball in the corner of the room. She hopes that if she curls up small enough, she’ll be able to disappear, wink away into the ether and dissolve through the air to freedom.

She _hurts_.

Her left hand is agony, a startling, stifling pain that radiates outward like an exploding star, permeating every limb with a dull, throbbing ache.

She supposes she should be proud of herself; she’s managed to survive another day. Another day of torture, another day of writhing, roiling pain as the Venatori channelled their magic into the Anchor in hope of invoking a reaction. And react the Anchor did – just not in the way they wanted. It sparked and burned and flashed in her palm, but no Rift opened.

Perhaps opening the Rift at Adamant had been a one-time affair – and no amount of magical interference will open another.

She wonders how long they’ll keep trying. They’ve already been experimenting on her for several days with no success – will they try for several more, a week? She’s not sure her body can last much longer.

Sure they feed her, and occasionally they drag her back to her small room to rest – but she can feel herself being worn thin and she’s not sure how long it’ll be until she snaps.

She shifts slightly. She’s lost track of how long she’s been curled up in the corner but her muscles are beginning to cramp and seize. She realises now how much she takes her magic for granted. Normally she doesn’t hesitate to pulse a little healing magic for even the tiniest of complaints – stubbed toes, paper cuts (and, of course, devastating hangovers after particularly ambitious nights with the Iron Bull). But now her magic is gone, and she would give anything to feel its soothing cool touch across her aching limbs and cramped muscles.

She takes a steadying breath and makes a tentative tug against where the veil normally curls in her chest.

Nothing.

The Venatori had given her something before they’d thrown her into her room. Something tangy and sharp and disgustingly viscous. It had felt gummy as it had slowly inched down her throat, and for a few uncomfortable minutes she’d been utterly convinced that she would suffocate. She has no idea what it was – the taste ominously unidentifiable – but it seems to have quite effectively blocked her magic.

It’s almost funny – really – that Anwen had so often resented her magic, the curse which took her from a life of privilege and forced her into apostasy, and yet now she would give _anything_ to feel its power again.

Anwen and her magic had always been uncomfortable bedfellows. Coming in to her abilities abnormally late, the veil rests uneasily upon her, pinching and chafing. She’s cautious when she casts, wary and restrained, sacrificing strength for the sake of control.

Precious, _precious_ control.

Control has always been important to Anwen; uptight and finicky as a child, only growing worse with age. She’s smart, astutely observant, and with a natural charisma she’d honed over the years into a powerful tool – becoming a veritable _master_ of control. She controls herself, her emotions, her image, other people, her surroundings. Magic is just one more thing, one more aspect of her life that she keeps closely, _obsessively_ controlled.

_But then_.

There _had_ been times she’d felt that control slip. When she’d been backed into a corner, or when her friends had been in danger, and her carefully maintained limits had shattered. Her magic had surged and swelled, erupting with such ferocity that the earth trembled and the air sang with power. It had been terrifying the first time it happened – terrifying but… _thrilling_. And every time since, every time she’d let her magic flow free and loose from her fingertips, the easier it had become.

That’s what she needs to feel now, she realises. Not the clipped, careful magic she’d practiced as an apostate – that scared teenager who’d fled from her father’s estate with nothing but shame and fear and a few hastily-chosen possessions. Not even the measured, elegant magic she’d mastered once she’d found her place with the mage underground. She needs that _force_ – that trembling, desperate power that throbs and pounds when she reaches deep, deep inside.

She shifts a little more, uncurling ever so slightly, raising her head and canting it from side to side, stretching her neck until she feels a satisfying pop.

There’s magic inside her, _she knows it_. Even if she cannot feel it. A blazing magic – bright and powerful and terrible and _wonderful_.

She makes another small little tug, trying to coax that first little whisper of magic.

Nothing.

Nothing,  _until._

There’s a tremor – one tiny, tremulous note of power.

It’s quiet at first, _so quiet_ , but as she concentrates on blocking out all other sounds, she thinks she can hear more. Delicate tones of magic seem to build and build, ebbing and flowing in an urgent, rolling cadence.

She can’t understand now how she’d ever thought this a curse. This beautiful symphony of thoughts and feelings and sensations and _power_. Surely this is a _gift_.

Magic thrums within her now, not just a lilting melody but something she can _feel_ , urgent and alive, flickering, fluttering, like the wings of a butterfly flapping frantically against a windowpane. And then it bursts, a great cyclone of power torn from a darker, deeper place than she has ever known. It surges out into her limbs, filling all the tired, empty spaces inside of her with power, tingling pleasantly beneath her skin.

Feeling whole again for the first time since the Venatori took her captive, Anwen extends her right arm and _pushes_ , smiling with immense satisfaction as an arc of lightning springs – finally, _finally_ – from her fingertips.              

The wooden door trapping her in the cave is instantly obliterated, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Splinters waver through the air like confetti, coming to rest on the uneven floor of the cave in a charred heap. The smell of burning wood permeates the room, along with the odd, crisp tang of her magic. 

She slowly unfurls her body and rises unsteadily to her feet, hands braced against the wall as her still aching limbs remember how to move. Despite her discomfort, she knows she needs to move – needs to move _now_. The explosion was loud. It’s only a matter of time until the Venatori come to investigate. And then she’ll need to fight her way out.

A small, uncertain part of her mind already regrets the door – sneaking out would have probably been the safer bet. But that regret is soon quashed; it had _felt good_ to blow the door.

She smiles – _let the fuckers come_.

* * *

A bolt of electricity pierces through the air, a glittering orb of pink and shocking white which bathes the stone walls of the tunnel in unnatural daylight.

Anwen doesn’t see the moment the ball hits the Venatori’s chest, blinded by a sudden explosion of light, but she does hear the man’s desperate screech. When the light has faded and her eyes have had time to adjust, she can see the man sprawled awkwardly on the floor, gulping raggedly to drag mouthfuls of air into his scorched lungs. His staff lies uselessly on the floor beside him, the wood smouldering in flames. She’s surprised that he’s still alive; even from a distance she can see the blackened skin, the blisters covering his face.

She starts walking toward him, already calling another powerful burst of magic into her hand. It would be the merciful thing, after all, to end his suffering swiftly. But in all honesty, offering the man a quick death is only a minor concern, mostly she just wants to make sure that every one of these Venatori fuckers is truly, _undeniably_ dead.

He tries to back up, charred limbs scrabbling against the pocked floor to push his injured body away from her. She raises her hand and a wall of ice erupts at his back, spanning the entire width of the tunnel and effectively blocking him in. He looks scared as she nears, although there’s something else as well – _astonishment_ , she realises.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he coughs out with a sickening wheeze, “you Southern mages are all so—” His words fail him, voice cracking into broken breathing. But she can guess what he meant to say – you’re _weak_ , _pathetic_.

_Arrogant man_ , she thinks with a snarl.

Something flares and burns inside. She’s angry – _furious_ , even – that he’d thought so little of her abilities, that he’d underestimated her so completely. This man has held her captive, been complicit in days of torture, and yet this affront to her pride seems to sting worst of all. Whatever designs on mercy she’d previously held are soon forgotten.

He is going to die – and it is going to be _slow_. 

She pulls a lance of ice into existence, a long, thin stiletto with a thinly tapered end. She curls her hands around it, adjusts her grip so that her strike will have sufficient force, then leans over her Venatori assailant to pierce the icicle into his chest. He’s only wearing mage robes, more decorative than protective, and the sharpened lance pushes neatly into his flesh.

There’s a wet sputter as she pushes it deeper, and the man coughs thickly, splattering the front of his robes with fat, crimson droplets.

Anwen steps back but doesn’t let her eyes linger on the ruined man at her feet. She knows he will die; she doesn’t need to watch.

She turns and she starts stumbling down the corridor, her tired, stiff limbs trembling with each unsteady step. A prayer to the Maker is rattling through her brain, a desperate plea that he will deliver her from this place without further incident, but she’s already calling lightning to her palms – just in case her prayer goes unanswered.

Her movements are jagged and erratic as she winds her way through the labyrinthine tunnels of the mine that the Venatori have repurposed for their hideout. She is exhausted, ravenous with hunger, and it’s taking all of her concentration just to keep on moving, just to place one foot in front of the other, then again, and again. Her left hand still throbs with the lingering remnants of the torture she has endured but she daren’t waste any magic on soothing the pain; she’ll need all her mana for fighting.

Somehow, miraculously, she manages to keep walking forward, more out of sheer stubbornness than anything else.

This is exactly what they warn against in Circles. Mages desperate and exhausted. Mages pushing themselves to the very edge of control, with nothing but the chasm of destruction beside them. She is being fuelled by anger and magic now, and even an apostate knows that this is a dangerous combination. This is when the demons are meant to come, whispering with promises of power or freedom.

Although she doubts she would even _notice_ were a demon to offer her a deal right now.

All she can hear is her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the sound of her ragged breathing as her lungs try to drag in enough oxygen for her exhausted limbs – the whispering of demons could never be heard over this cacophony of sound.

Anwen stumbles across some sort of laboratory in her frantic search for an escape route – different from the one where she’d been held as object of curiosity – and at first she feels a sudden spark of curiosity. She wonders what else these mages are working on, what other secrets they hope to unlock and offer to Corypheus. Were she not so desperate to escape, she might even be tempted to stop and investigate. But she’s tired, and she’s hurt, and as she looks at the neat rows of glass and metal and reams of paper, her curiosity is quashed under a swell of anger. 

She doesn’t want to waste her magic so instead she pushes forcefully at each table as she winds her way across the room, shaking each surface until the peculiar assortment of equipment and alchemy ingredients fall and shatter against the floor. It is oddly satisfying – the bright tinkling sound of breaking glass, the colourful splatter of unknown potions against the dull stone – and when Anwen reaches another tunnel at the other side of the laboratory, she starts staggering down it with renewed determination.

She’s near the end of the tunnel when a woman turns a corner just ahead, coming to startled stop when she catches sight of Anwen.

Anwen blinks, pushing through the fog of memory to try and picture the figures who stood and watched and _sneered_ while she writhed on that examination table. There’s a flash of recognition – Anwen _does_ know this woman; she’s the one in charge of the foul concoctions they’d fed her, the Lyrium potions tinged with magebane and whatever other vile, unpalatable monstrosities they added. 

The woman raises her staff and sends a fireball hurtling down the narrow tunnel. Anwen’s arms lift instinctively, palms flat before her, and there’s a momentary flash of violet before her barrier flickers to life. The flames lick across the pearlescent barrier of light then fizzle and fiss into nothingness.

Anwen wastes no time, dropping her barrier and flinging her own ball of flames. Fire magic does not come to Anwen easily, it feels prickly and uncomfortable in her hands, but she’d liked the poetic justice of using the same magic that the woman had used against her.

If the woman has the ability to form a barrier, she doesn’t manage to summon it in time, and the flames consume her in a wave of fire and heat. There’s a scream, brief but curdling, and then a pop of light that makes Anwen cower to shield her eyes. When she looks up again, she can see that the woman is leaning heavily on her staff, a little charred in places but mostly unharmed.

_Fuck_.

The woman narrows her eyes at Anwen, and there’s an amused twitch at the corner of her lips which makes Anwen uneasy. But it’s when the woman starts chanting, low and steady and almost mesmerising in its steady rythem, that Anwen knows she’s in trouble. Anwen can _feel_ the words worming their way into her ears, settling inside her skull, bringing a shroud of panic and horror with them.

She knows the spell, recognises it as one of Dorian’s tricks, and she knows she needs to finish this _now_ before the woman has the chance to finish casting and render Anwen useless with Horror.

Anwen summons the Fade as she dashes forward, letting waves of magic hurry her steps until she’s standing straight in front of the Venatori woman. She draws on her Spirit Blade, unleashing the glittering, golden blade from her hands, but before she has the chance to strike, the woman lifts her staff, jabbing it upward until the jagged curl of wood and bone at its tip smacks against Anwen’s jaw. 

Anwen reels back, vision blurred with the startling force of the blow, and though she can’t really see her assailant through the haze of pain, she raises her blade to try and block any further attacks. It doesn’t work. Instead the woman’s staff swings squarely into her skull, slashing into flesh and tearing away a chunk of skin and hair. The swirling sensation of Horror is already scrabbling inside Anwen’s head, clawing at her skull, and now it feels like her head might crack apart, bone torn apart by the sheer force of the staff strike and the shredding of Horror’s fingers.

There’s a growing warmth as Anwen feels the blood spilling out into her hair, then a strange tickling sensation as it creeps down the side of her face and to her neck. Her fingers twitch, as if fighting the urge to press at the wound and staunch the bleeding, but instead she merely tightens her hold on her hilt, clutching her Spirit Blade with a vicelike grip.

She’s losing, she realises. But then – she’s been losing from the moment she fell into the Venatori’s ambush. From the moment she was manacled, the moment she was poisoned, _tortured_. She’s been losing for days now. But that didn’t stop her from escaping. That didn’t stop her from cutting down her captors. That doesn’t mean she can’t still win.

_She’s the Inquisitor_ , for fuck’s sake – and she will _not_ lose to these preening, sneering, arrogant fools. 

A smile comes to her lips, small and weary but definitely _there_ , and she almost _cackles_ as she lifts her Spirit Blade and slashes with all the strength she can summon. The blade cuts cleanly through the woman’s staff, whistling strangely as it slices through the air, then sinks into the woman’s side, leather and bone proving futile defence against the magical edge.

There is no scream, not even a wet gurgle, just a stunned silence as the woman stares at Anwen with large, shocked eyes. The woman stands skewered at the end of Anwen’s blade, teetering for a few breathless moments before finally falling to the ground, her body hitting the stone with a dull, heavy thud (and at least for her the end was quick).

She’d seemed so large before, looming over the examination table as Anwen had moaned in pain, begged for mercy. Now she seems so small – just a crumpled, fragment of a life.

There’s no time to dwell on this small victory though. Anwen may have bested another one of her torturer’s but she knows there are more, and she needs to move – _needs to hurry_ – if she hopes to escape with her life.

Anwen’s not sure how long she stumbles aimlessly around the mine. And though she can feel her exhaustion spreading its hold over her body inch-by-inch, she’s relieved that the few Venatori she encounters fall swiftly to her attacks, taken by surprise and unable to counter the sheer force of her rage and desperation.

She’s taken down six so far; she thinks that’s about half – and while part of her wants to carry on stalking the tunnels and caves until every single one of those fuckers is dead, that bloodthirstiness is soon forgotten the moment she opens a door and finds herself standing in the cool, crisp air of night.

She’s _free_.

And not even her burning desire for revenge can outmatch her desire to just get _as far away as possible._

There’s a rocky clearing directly in front of her, spotted with rusting, long-abandoned mining equipment, and beyond that she can see a treeline masking softly undulating hills. There’s a gentle breeze, remarkably refreshing after so many days in stagnant, cave air. And above her she can see the stars – twinkling spots of silver that seem to wink at her in greeting; _happy to see her_.

She runs.

Or at least she tries.

Her legs are heavy, throbbing and leaden, and her clumsy feet stumble again and again as she pushes forward over uneven terrain. She doesn’t know where she’s going, doesn’t recognise this particular landscape. And she thinks that maybe she should feel afraid – she is, after all, lost and injured and worryingly low on mana (and wouldn’t this be the perfect time to run into a Rift).

But she’s free now, and none of the fears her mind can summon are more horrifying than the thought of going back into that dark, miserable cave again.

So she runs, and runs, just desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and the mine.

When her legs finally give out for good, she sinks into the grass, knees shaking with the impact before her torso pitches forward and she falls face-first. She cannot move, her cheek pressing into the ground, limbs bent uncomfortably from the fall. Instead she just focuses on breathing, breathing and living and just – trying to figure out what in the Void she’s going to do.

She pushes what remains of her magic into her limbs, tendrils of healing power that caress against aching muscles and knit together the torn flesh of her head. It’s not much – her rampage in the cave has left her with far too little mana – but it’s enough to bring her body back from the edge of uselessness.

Eventually she has enough strength to roll over, turning onto her back so she can stare at the ocean of stars that stretches above the canopy of trees overheard. The branches seem to be reaching out, almost like hands, leaf-lined fingers trying to catch their own sparkling balls of light.

It’s a beautiful sight.

Anwen knows she can’t stay here forever. She’s injured. She’s filthy. She’s starving. She has no money, no idea where she is, no clue how to find her allies. The whole situation is utterly grim.

But she’s alive – and she has her magic back – and there are beautiful things like stars in the world.

She supposes that’ll do for now.


	5. Copycat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen comes face-to-face with the Venatori shapeshifter.
> 
> And then I have some fun writing Sera's POV - which was SO MUCH fun.

Cullen stares through the bars of the holding cell at the woman wearing the Inquisitor’s face.

It is an uncanny resemblance – the dark hair with subtle flecks of red, the bright blue of her eyes, the softest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so faint that most people don’t even notice them. But Cullen has noticed them – because Cullen spends an inordinately large amount of time staring at this face; staring at it, admiring it, memorising every little feature so that he can hold on to his image of her when she’s away from Skyhold for weeks at a time.

Which is why he’s so thoroughly astounded that he didn’t see the truth sooner.

The replica may be remarkably accurate but it’s also just – _wrong_. It’s too calm, too placid. The eyebrows aren’t animated enough while speaking, the eyes not soft enough when laughing, and the _smile_ – too sweet, too gentile, not crooked and goofy and warm as it should be.

How could he have ever mistaken this fraud for his Anwen?

The woman looks up, noticing his looming presence, and her face falls into something pitiable, lost and afraid and _hurt_. “Cullen, let me go,” she pleads with a tremulous voice. “I-I don’t understand. Why am I here? Please – _it’s me_ – please let me go.” She leans forward, hands curling around the bars as she looks up at him with large, soulful eyes.

He only looks down at her impassively. “Don’t even bother – I know you’re not her.”

The sorrow immediately drops, chased away by frustration and a long, rumbling sigh. Then she steps back from the bars slightly, raises her hands to her hips, and _sneers_ at him, nose crinkling as one side of her mouth curls up sharply. “So what can I do for you then, _Commander_? Come to continue our little tryst from the bedroom?” 

He feels a flush of anger darkening his cheeks, hot and red – though, there’s embarrassment there too. He’d been _so excited_ when she’d come to him, pale skin bathed in moonlight, full figure visible through the far too-thin nightgown; excited and intrigued and painfully aroused. That he’d let such base emotions distract him from the terrible truth – the realisation that _that’s not Anwen_ – is enough to thoroughly shame him.

“Shut up,” he snaps, stepping closer to the bars in warning, his far larger form towering over her.

She doesn’t appear fazed by his posturing. If anything, she looks amused, her sneer turning into something gentler, almost coy. “I could have made you _very happy_ , Commander. I would have done anything you wanted, _anything at all_.” She steps closer too, snakes her arms through the bars so she can run her hands down his chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt as she drags them down. When she speaks again, her voice is dark and husky, yet so achingly like Anwen’s that Cullen can’t help the traitorous little quiver that spills up his spine. “Don’t you want me, Commander? Don’t you want to claim me – make me yours – use my body for your pleasure?” 

“ _Shut up_ ,” he snaps again, more forceful now, pushing her hands off him and taking a resolute step backwards.

She laughs, and the sound is infuriating, light and happy, delighted by his misery.

He’s glad when the door leading to the holding cells swings open and Leliana and Cassandra step briskly inside. Not-Anwen stills, watching the women approach with interest and (as Cullen notes with satisfaction) perhaps the barest hint of apprehension.

Both women look a little disgruntled, eyes blinking heavily with sleep, steps a little more leaden than usual. Leliana’s not wearing her hood, and Cullen’s surprised at how much younger she looks, _sweeter_ , with dishevelled hair and an expression too tired to hold her usual reserve. Cassandra just looks irritated, eyes narrowed and a scowl tugging her mouth down.

They look at him questioningly as they approach, clearly puzzled by the unexpected and rather rude awakening in the middle of the night. He’d sent messengers to wake them with only the faintest of details – _come at once; a new prisoner at Skyhold_ – eager to stop news of Anwen’s absence from spreading around the fortress. Because the alarming truth of the matter is that the Inquisitor is missing – likely captured, _possibly dead_ – and he doesn’t know how the Inquisition will handle such news. 

Honestly – he’s not sure how _he’s_ handling such news either. He feels equal parts frustration and terror, and he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists – itching to _do something_ but entirely unclear as to what.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Cassandra asks as she nears, then her eyes widen with shock before she asks, a little louder, verging on shrill, “why is the Inquisitor behind bars?”

“That’s not Anwen,” Cullen replies gravely, “she’s an imposter.”

Both women bristle at the news, sharing a look of confusion before turning to face him again.

“If that’s not the Inquisitor – then _where is she_?” Leliana asks.

“Dead,” Not-Anwen replies with a twinkle in her eyes, clearly enjoying this little spectacle.

Cullen can feel the blood drain from his face, his whole body stiffening as he sucks in a sharp breath. It’s what he’s been dreading, the answer he’s been secretly suspecting at the back of his mind but forcefully quieting because if it’s true – _if it’s true_ – it might just break him. 

Beside him, Leliana and Cassandra have similar responses, their faces turning pale, a clear, stifling panic settling behind their eyes.

Not-Anwen laughs, a girlish giggle wholly unlike Anwen’s usual hearty snorts. “Or maybe she’s not dead. Maybe she’s being presented to Corypheus as a prize. If that’s the case, maybe she would prefer death.”

“Stop playing games and give us a straight answer,” Cullen snarls.

“Oh – but I like playing games. Wouldn’t you like to play with me, Commander?” She cocks her hip to the side, rolls her shoulders back so that her chest pushes out a little further, straining against the front of her nightgown. 

He flushes, suddenly mortified at the thought that Leliana and Cassandra might figure out what he was doing before he’d realised the deception, might think less of him for having so easily succumbed to the woman’s seduction attempt. He wishes he’d thrown a robe over her or something, anything to cover lithe limbs exposed by a far too flimsy nightgown.

“Where is the Inquisitor?” Leliana asks again, voice firm, eyes boring into Not-Anwen with a piercing intensity.

“I don’t know,” the woman replies, head shaking slightly, and there’s a calm openness in her expression which makes Cullen believe her. “I didn’t _need_ to know. All I needed to do was take her place and cause as much trouble within the Inquisition as possible before I got caught.” 

“You knew you would get caught?” Cassandra asks, genuinely interested by the woman’s words.

“Of course it would happen eventually. I may look like her but _I’m not her_ – I have none of her memories – and I knew that eventually I would be caught out. I  _did_ hope to last more than a few days but… well… the Commander likes to get rough.” She gives him a wink and he feels his flush deepening.

Neither Leliana and Cassandra seem to notice his discomfort though and they focus their attentions on the woman behind bars. “How has this deception been achieved?” Cassandra asks.

“I’m a _very powerful_ mage,” Not-Anwen responds, somehow managing to sound smug despite her captivity.

“A shapeshifter then?” Leliana asks and Cullen immediately scoffs.

“Impossible,” Cullen says, “no mage is powerful enough to mimic the human form.”

“I don’t know,” Leliana responds, “I knew a remarkably powerful shapeshifter once. Perhaps this ability isn’t quite as impossible as you think.”

Not-Anwen only smiles – that sweet, gentle smile that looks so strange on Anwen’s face.

“Who _are_ you?” Leliana asks.

“Does it matter? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

Cullen’s fingers twitch for the sword at his hip; he would gladly give this woman the death she so clearly expects. But while this woman thinks her death inevitable, _Cullen’s not so sure_. She’ll sit for judgement in front of Anwen, that much is certain – but Anwen has shown remarkable mercy in her judgements. She didn’t kill Alexius for what he did to the mages at Redcliffe, nor the Mayor of Crestwood for all the innocents he drowned during the Blight. He thinks it likely that Anwen will show this woman mercy too – although… Anwen needs to be _found_ before she can show anyone mercy.

“No – you’re right – you don’t matter,” Cassandra responds, steely and disdainful, before turning from the cell and walking away, ushering the others to follow her to the door which leads to the rest of Skyhold. “We need to find Anwen, Leliana—" 

“I’ll send messages to my scouts to search all areas where the Inquisitor has recently travelled,” Leliana interrupts Cassandra before she can finish her sentence, already formulating a plan. “I will only use people I can personally trust – we need to keep this information as contained as possible. Otherwise there’ll be panic.”

“I’ll assign my best men to guard the prison – with strict instructions not to engage with the prisoner or tell anyone of what they see in here.” Cullen gives a decided nod as he speaks then pauses for a moment in thought before adding, a little softer and more uncertain, “what are we going to tell people about Anwen’s sudden disappearance?”

“I’ll go speak to Josephine,” Leliana answers, “she’ll manage people’s inquiries. We’ll have to tell people she’s sick or something – given her irrational behaviour these last few days, I imagine people will believe it.”

With a plan of action decided (vague as it may be), the two women march determinedly from the room, whatever tiredness they’d felt mere moments before completely forgotten as they focus on the task at hand.

Cullen lingers, thoughts still a whirl of confusion and anger and fear.

He walks slowly back to Not-Anwen’s cell, not entirely sure why.

When he looks at her, he’s glad to find that she’s no longer smiling, merely standing with a blank expression on her face, almost _defeated_ , though too proud to show it and trying for impassive nonchalance instead. There’s a growing bruise on her temple from when Cullen backhanded her, the dark purple standing starkly against the paleness of her skin.

“Aren’t you going to heal that?” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the wound.

She just carries on staring at him impassively, though he doesn’t think he imagines the brief flash of irritation that flits across her eyes, Anwen’s startling blue replaced with a stranger’s gold for the barest of moments.

A sudden realisation dawns on him. “You _can’t_ heal it. Healing magic is a rare gift that Anwen possesses – but you do not.” He smirks. “Maybe you’re not as powerful a mage as you think.”

“Healing magic will not save her from whatever Corypheus has in store for her,” she responds defiantly. “Your precious Anni will die, the Inquisition will crumble, and _you_ will be left with _nothing_.” 

A growl catches at the back of his throat as Cullen suddenly surges forward. “If anything happens to her, I will kill you myself,” he spits, rattling at the bars of her cage.

“Then I look forward to seeing you next time, Commander,” she says, waving her hand at him dismissively. She shrugs languidly as she turns away from him, then walks to the far end of her cell before sinking down to the floor. 

His movements are far more tense, turning sharply and marching from Skyhold’s prison, trying not to hurry but walking with strong, controlled steps. He doesn’t want her to see how much she’s riled him, how much his heart aches at the prospect that Anwen may already be dead. 

* * *

Mud clings to Sera’s boots as she trudges along the forest path, thick and wet and stubbornly persistent. It takes a frustrating amount of effort to yank her feet from the sludge, cringing at the odd slurping sounds she makes with each step. 

It sounds fucking gross – like punching a grapefruit.

The rain had come unexpectedly, drenching the forest with a sheet of water before fucking off as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a chill in the air and a quagmire of water and muck on the ground.

 _Spring Showers_ , she’s heard it called – as if giving it a whimsical name makes it any less shit.

At least the smell is nice – clean and clear and _leafy_. It’s different from Denerim, which never smelled clean even after the most enthusiastic of downpours, only ever dank and dreary. It’s different from Skyhold too – it had always smelled a little strange there, like the air was a little too thin to smell of anything much.

She can feel something bristle along her spine when she thinks of Skyhold. Something hot and itchy. For a moment she thinks she’s angry but she soon dismisses that idea. It’s not anger – because that would mean she cares, _which she doesn’t_.

She’s not angry that the Inquisitor was being a total arsehole. 

She’s not angry that the Inquisitor sent her away from Skyhold.

She’s not angry that the first friend she’s had in a really long time (maybe ever?) looked her right in the eyes and told her to get lost.

Something twists in her gut, something uncomfortable and swirly and – stop it, stop it!

It’s the same feeling she gets when Solas starts talking about the Fade, or when Cole starts talking about, well, _anything_. It’s a numb feeling, an empty feeling. The kind of feeling which makes you feel like an idiot – like everything you thought was right is wrong. It’s the kind of feeling you have to fight against, punching and spitting, because if you don’t then all you’ll end up feeling is nothing.

Fuck the Inquisition.

Fuck Skyhold.

And fuck that fucking Inquisitor.

With her pompous little smirks, and her stupid matching outfits, and her _knowing things_ – always knowing everything about everything! She thinks she’s so fucking smart.

Well she’s not smart – _she’s stupid_ – which is why she’d turned down the Red Jennies’ help. Too up her own arse to appreciate the work they were doing.

Although… she _had_ understood – at least at first. She’d listened patiently when Sera explained about the Jennies. In fact, Anni _always_ listened patiently – to everyone. Even if she didn’t agree with them, Anni always listened first. And she’d helped them too; she’d got Sera her bees, sided with the servants when some Lord started gobbing off against the Inquisition, even helped the Jennies take those caravans in Kirkwall, despite how angry it made the Marcher merchant houses.  

Anni had been the _good kind_ of noble.

Until she wasn’t.

Then she was just another uptight arse-muncher with delusions of superiority.

Sera had been glad to leave Skyhold (that’s right – _glad_. That hadn’t been anger roiling in the pit of her stomach, or sadness crawling under her skin). She was eager to get back to the Jennies – back to doing what she’d always done, what she’d always been _good at_ : pissing off arseholes and standing up for the little guy.

Her plan was to head back to Val Royeaux, pick up where she’d left off before Her Gracious Ladybits had recruited her. It’s not far from Skyhold either – several days – crossing the Dales before skirting round the tail-end of the Waking Sea. 

She’d been making good time too, already in the Exalted Plains, until she’d received a note from one of her people requesting her immediate presence in Belmont.

It had been a weird note, oddly personal – missives from the Jennies rarely requested individual agents by name. That’s kind of the whole fucking point – the Jennies are an anonymous collective, hidden, _innocuous_ ; they can pass unnoticed everywhere they travel, dispensing justice to whichever gobshite noble was stupid enough to invoke their ire. 

But Sera is itching to do something, _anything_ , to distract her mind from darker thoughts. To push away all memories of Skyhold or the Inquisition or the ugly, ugly argument she’d had with Anni before she’d left. To banish the sadness that sits heavily in the space behind her ribs. 

Not that she’s sad – she’s not sad – _she’s fucking fine_.

The rain starts again just as she’s reaching Belmont, heavier this time, and Sera pulls her jacket closer, cursing a little when she feels the water seeping through a poorly patched hole at the right shoulder. The village backs straight up against the forest, it’s architecture that weird mix of Orlesian and Ferelden styles that’s common in settlements this close to the border. They’re _nice_ buildings too; the village is relatively prosperous, made rich through the lumber trade, though falling under the patronage of the grander estate at Maida Vallée, which eagerly takes its share of all profits – sometimes a little _too_ eagerly, hence the Jenny presence.

 _Fucking nobles_.

Sera darts quickly across the lumber yards at the outskirts of the village (well, as quickly as the mud will allow) before winding her way through the mix of houses and shops, eyes narrowing at hand-painted signs made grey and blurred by the deluge as she tries to navigate this unfamiliar place. When she finally sees the sign she’s looking for, a rose with a crown around its stem, she barrels forward, flinging the door open with a clatter so she can get out of the rain as soon as possible.

Several patrons snap their heads up to glare at her as she stumbles through the heavy wooden door and she glares right back at them – nosey shits should mind their own fucking business. Most people quickly turn their attention back to their drinks; only a few keep their eyes on her, watching with interest as this strangely dishevelled elf picks her way between the messy scramble of tables. 

It’s a large tavern, much larger than the Herald’s Rest, although it seems peculiarly filled with furniture, as if the building has shrunk over time, crowding everything closer. The clientele isn’t particularly varied – large, burly men mainly, most wearing the same thick overalls they presumably wore for the day’s work. Occasionally there’ll be a smarter-dressed man or a stuffy-looking woman, trying very hard not to look at anyone (as if they can’t be seen if _they’re not looking_ ).

When she reaches the bar she asks for a beer, throwing more coin across the table than necessary before taking her first eager sips. The beer is warm, stale and oddly papery, and still the greatest bloody thing she’s tasted in ages. She’s running low on food and drink, having left Skyhold too quickly to pack with any great care, and she’s grateful to have this opportunity to fill her belly.

She’s only a few sips into her beer when someone approaches, a dwarven man with a fulsome beard, carefully braided, and a pair of well-mended overalls. His face is painted with the thick, black lines of a tattoo – although his skin is so heavily scored and grooved from a hard-lived life that it almost looks like the tattoo has been carved into him.

“Sera?” he asks when he’s by her side, looking up at her before glancing quickly over his shoulder. It seems an oddly nervous gesture, his eyes flicking to the far corner of the room.

“Who wants to know?” she retorts, chin jutting defiantly.

He rolls his eyes, little patience for Sera’s evasive answer.

“Just… come on,” he says, beckoning her to follow as he turns his back to the bar and walks swiftly away. 

A part of her wants to stay stubbornly where she is – irritated that he didn’t answer her question – but then she didn’t take this little detour across the Exalted Plains just to be difficult. She follows him; keen to find out what job requires the Jennies tonight. 

He leads her to the corner of the tavern that’s furthest from the door. There’s a small table there, only room enough for two, so obscured by the winding staircase to the second floor that you wouldn’t see it unless you knew to look for it.

Someone is sitting there already, back turned to Sera, and from the small stature, Sera assumes it to be a woman. As she gets nearer, Sera starts to feel the slow dawning of recognition – there’s something about the woman’s straight posture, about the slight flecks of red in her dark hair, that’s so powerfully familiar that Sera starts to feel that odd feeling in the pit of her stomach again (the feeling that’s definitely not anger and _definitely_ not sadness).

Sera’s boots scuff on the floorboards and the woman turns, Sera’s eyes immediately coming to lock onto a pair of very familiar, startlingly blue eyes. 

Sera stops in her tracks, turns, and starts to walk away. “Oh, fuck off,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Sera, wait!” Anwen calls, trotting after her, one hand reaching out to stop Sera’s departure, something sad and plaintive in her eyes.

Sera just swats it away. “No – piss off – you told me to leave, you can’t trick me into meeting you then expect me to come back.”

“What?! I never asked you to leave!”

“Oh so I just imagined it when you called me useless, called me a _traitorous peasant_ – when you told me to leave Skyhold and never come back?!” 

At first Sera thinks Anwen looks hurt – but then she realises it’s _shock_ , her eyes blown wide and her mouth gaping slightly.

Anwen steps forward briskly and tries to grab her again, this time successfully wrapping her fingers around Sera’s wrist and dragging her back behind the shadow of the staircase. Sera could pull away if she wanted – but she finds that she doesn’t.

And it’s not because she still considers Anwen a friend or because she wants to hear what Anwen has to say – _because she doesn’t_.

It’s because, well – _shut it_!

Anwen pushes her into a chair then takes the one on the opposite side of the table. Sera notices that the dwarven man is standing near the foot of the stairs, blocking the route to this secluded corner of the tavern as if standing guard. Anwen leans close and Sera finds herself leaning in closer too, bent over the pocked surface of the small table, and when Anwen starts talking, it is in a quiet, urgent voice. “Sera, I never called you those things. And I certainly never told you to leave Skyhold.” Sera scoffs but Anwen just carries on undeterred. “I haven’t even _been in Skyhold_ – I’ve been in an underground Venatori laboratory for… _fuck knows_ how long. They sent a shapeshifting mage in my place so that my absence wouldn’t be noticed. _She’s the one_ who told you to leave.”

Sera fixes her with a level stare. “That’s the craziest shit I have ever heard.”

Anwen looks a little crestfallen. “You don’t believe me?”

 “Of course I fucking believe you!” Sera suddenly shouts, causing Anwen to flinch and quickly glance over her shoulder to see whether Sera’s enthusiastic outburst has drawn any attention. Sera rolls her eyes at Anwen’s paranoia but speaks a little softer when she adds, “because the alternative is even fucking crazier.”

“And what alternative is that?” Anwen asks in the same hushed tone as before.

“That you’d gone proper nuts – seriously, Anni, that bitch who’s taken your place is out of her fucking mind.” 

Anwen groans, dropping her head until her forehead rests against the wooden tabletop, her fingers coming to bury into her hair. “That’s what I was afraid would happen,” she murmurs.

 “I knew it! I knew it!” Sera crows, suddenly feeling elated. Not that she’d felt angry before, angry or sad or disappointed – _because she hadn’t_ – but still, it’s _nice_ to have Anni in front of her again, _the real Anni_ , not some uptight arse-hat. “I _knew_ it couldn’t be you – I _said_ it; I said it to Cullen. I told him you were possessed or something. _Something demony_.” 

Anwen’s head jerks up at the mention of Cullen. “Oh Maker, Cullen – is he all right?”

Sera just shrugs. “Your precious Cully-wully will be fine. He’s a big strapping boy – I’m sure he can look after himself. He’s a fucking idiot though for not figuring it out.”

Anwen frowns, though Sera’s not sure what caused it – either irritation that Sera called Cullen an idiot or disappointment that he hadn’t been able to see through the shapeshifter’s trick. 

“All right,” Sera says, making to stand again, “let’s get you back to Skyhold as soon as possible – then you can sort out this whole pissing mess.”

“No!” Anwen cries, surprising Sera with the sheer panic in her voice. Sera sits back down. “The Venatori that captured me – I killed some of them but… there are some left. If we go back to Skyhold now, it’ll take too long to send anyone and they’ll get away. I’ve sent a message with the Jennies back to the Inquisition but… I don’t know how long it’ll take them to respond. I don’t even know whether they’ll _believe_ my message with that _fake-me_ there. They’ll get away, Sera. And – _I can’t let them get away_. I need to find them, I need to know what they were trying to get from me, and I need to… _make them pay_.”

Sera looks at Anwen curiously, one brow arched while her mouth gapes in silent question. Normally Anwen is so fucking noble it’s almost obnoxious – so determined to prove that she’s not a monster, that she’s not the wicked mage that the world seems to expect her to be. So to see Anwen pleading for retribution, eyes wild, words seething out between clenched teeth, comes as a shock to Sera.

_Oh Tadwinks, what have they done to you?_

It’s only now that Sera really notices how wretched Anwen looks. She’d been so excited before – so intrigued by this unexpected reunion – that she hadn’t really paid Anwen’s appearance much attention. But now she can’t help but stare at the hollowness in her cheeks, the dark smudges around her eyes, eyes that seem a little less bright, darkened by something whispering and haunted lurking behind the familiar blue. She looks much thinner too, and the borrowed clothes she’s wearing gape and bulge around the neck and elbows, only exaggerating just how _small_ she looks.

She looks at Sera with those sad, haunted eyes. “Sera, will you help me?”

Sera smiles – as if she even needed to ask.

“Yeah – let’s fuck this shit up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	6. Postscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen does some moping and Anwen gets shit done!

Cullen frowns at his report as he writes, a deep crease carved between his brows as he tries desperately to focus on the words in front of him. But the lines seem to writhe and waiver the more he looks at them, his vision blurring despite his stubborn attempts to just concentrate harder. There’s an odd twitch in one eye, a fluttering rythem in time with the dry scratching sound of his quill against paper, and he can feel the first faint murmurings of a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes.

It’s a stupid report anyway; he doesn’t even know why he’s writing it. Some mundane analysis of the troop numbers in Crestwood, recommending an alteration to the manning of Caer Bronach (fewer scouts, more soldiers) to provide more protection along Dead Man’s Pass. They keep losing caravans along the route – falling prey to either bandits or wild animals – and it’s beginning to affect the Inquisition’s supply lines. It’s affecting morale in the area as well, both in the Keep and for the citizens in Crestwood Village, and a more decisive Inquisition presence seems a good solution to both problems.

Not that it matters.

Interrupted supply lines are a petty concern, really, compared to the very real possibility that _the_ _Inquisitor is dead_.

Oh _Maker_

_Please don’t let her be dead_.

He’s repeated those words so often now the sounds are beginning to blur and blend in his mind. Sometimes a prayer, spoken in soft, reverential tones; sometimes a mantra that skips across his mind whenever he lets his thoughts wander, inevitably thinking of her when he’s not keeping himself preoccupied.

It’s hard not to think of Anwen though – she’s been missing for nearly two weeks, and while he has great faith in Leliana and her scouts, he’s beginning to think that he will _never_ hear word of her.

And that, he thinks, is perhaps the worst possible outcome.

To know her dead would devastate him, rattle him from the inside out until all his cracked and crumbling parts tumbled free and he came completely undone. But at least it would be quick.

To _not_ know. To forever wonder whether she lives or lies dead. That seems like a particularly cruel form of torture; the jagged little pieces of him coming free one tiny splinter at a time, wearing him away piece by piece. His hope would sustain him even as his despair tore him apart. He would come undone all the same, but it would take longer and hurt even more.

He has let his mind run away from him, he realises – as is happening more and more as the days stretch by – and as he draws his attention back to his report, he notices the quill has left a large, spidery splodge on the page where he paused in his writing. Several words have been consumed by the gradually growing ink-blotch, making several sentences all but illegible.

_Fuck_.

He tosses the quill across his desk and it scuppers across his papers, leaving a great arc of tiny ink splotches across his report to accompany the broad black splodge. Ah well, he was going to have to rewrite it anyway. His frown deepens, increasingly frustrated by his growing inability to do even the simplest of tasks these days.

He stands abruptly; his chair screeching across the wooden floorboards at his sudden movement. He needs to get out from behind his desk, he decides, he needs to stretch his legs, needs to breath some fresh air – something, _anything_.

He walks to Skyhold’s main Keep the long way, marching along the battlements from his office before descending to the central yard. He nods at the training soldiers in the sparring ring before taking the staircase up to the Great Hall. He’s not really walking anywhere in particular but it’s oddly comforting nonetheless – to let his feet wander rather than his thoughts, to focus on the steady rythem of his footfalls rather than the increasingly panicked tone of his internal monologue.

Eventually he finds himself in the library, unsurprised to find himself heading toward the small alcove that Dorian has claimed as his own; with Anwen gone, Dorian’s one of the few people Cullen can really talk to. He’d expected to find the man in question curled up in his favourite wing-back chair with a book in hand. Instead he’s standing next to a large crate with an armful of heavy tomes, eyes flitting along the shelves as he mumbles and tuts to himself.

“What’s going on here?” Cullen asks as he nears.

Dorian’s head jerks up at the question, looking momentarily irritated until he realises the interruption comes from Cullen and his features soften. “The College of Magi has sent over some of its collection – _a gift to the great Inquisition_ , apparently. Although they’ve sent us such uninspiring dross I rather suspect they just wanted to clear out their shelves to make room for something better.” He snorts. “Some gift…”

Cullen smiles in spite of himself, amused at the sight of Dorian’s fretting. “ _The Emergent Compendium_ isn’t _so bad_ ,” he offers, recognising one of the books in Dorian’s hand, “once you get passed the first few chapters. The introduction is too focused on countering Sister Dulcinea’s work but there are some interesting points Levall he starts discussing his _own_ views.”

Dorian _hmmms_ non-commitally then slides the book into its new home on the shelf. The rest of the books cradled in his arms soon follow, carefully organised away into the appropriate spots. When he’s finished, he snaps his fingers imperiously at Cullen then points at the open crate with a sharply raised brow. With a sigh, Cullen reaches obediently into the crate, pulls out a number of books, then hands them to Dorian one-by-one as Dorian makes sure each book is placed in its proper place. 

It's oddly soothing work, far more so than Cullen’s earlier failed attempts to write reports – reaching into the crate, handing books to Dorian, reaching back into the crate.

Dorian makes rude comments about the books as he puts them away, or just prattles on with general small-talk, and Cullen suspects he’s doing it for his sake, rather than because Dorian really cares about whether the kitchen’s new pastry chef is better than the last one.

There’s something amusing in the haughtiness of Dorian’s tone, in his expression of utter disdain whenever he sees another Orlesian account of Tevinter depravities, and Cullen can’t help the small smile that finds its way onto his lips. He realises now just how inordinately grateful he is to have Dorian here; he’d never expected to find a friend among the Inquisition – and certainly not a Tevinter mage at that. But somehow Dorian had become one of the dearest friends that Cullen has ever known.

“Ugh, another copy of _The Studious Theologian_ ,” Dorian grouses, “that makes five now!”

“Brother Gentivi is one of the few historians to be respected in both Ferelden _and_ Orlais,” Cullen explains, “it’s a safe choice for a gift.”

Dorian groans. “Safe but damnably dull.”

Cullen watches as Dorian places the book on the shelf, his gold-lined fingers catching the light where they curl around the spine. The shelf is already crowded – old, proud tomes unwilling to welcome their new comrade – and Dorian struggles to push the book into place. Cullen tries to help, holding the books aside to make enough room for the newest addition, and it’s then that he notices that something is amiss. To the left is a work by Lord _R_ enaures, to the right is one by Sister _A_ dalaide, and the other four afore-mentioned copies of _The Studious Theologian_ are nowhere in sight. He blinks, somewhat confused, finding it hard to believe that someone as smart as Dorian has failed to master the alphabet.

“Umm… I’m not sure how to say this but I think you’ve put that book in the wrong place,” Cullen says sheepishly once Dorian has finally managed to wedge it onto the shelf. He lets his eyes dart along the spines, noticing for the first time that _none_ of the books appear to be in alphabetical order, or in fact _any_ order that he can ascertain. “In fact, _all_ of these books appear to be in the wrong place.”

Dorian sighs deeply, and from the weary resignation on his face, Cullen gathers that this is a comment Dorian has heard frequently.

“Yes, I am well aware that the Skyhold library defies all comprehension.” Dorian raises a hand and drags his fingers along the gold-embossed leather of the books in front of him. “There was a lot of debate about how best way to organise the library when we first found ourselves in Skyhold. I, of course, wanted to use the Mosteiro system as used in all the finest libraries of Minrathous. Minaeve, however, wanted to use whatever ridiculous system they use in those barbaric Circles of yours.” Dorian gives Cullen a pointed stare at the words ‘barbaric Circles’ and Cullen rolls his eyes good-naturedly in response – Dorian always enjoys his little jibes at the Circles. 

“Anyway,” Dorian continues, “in the end our illustrious leader intervened with a system of her own devising. The books are separated into genre and then…” he pauses, as if it physically pains him to say the words, “they are _colour-coordinated_.”

Cullen’s brows twist in confusion. “That’s madness.” 

“Oh, I am well aware,” Dorian responds with an emphatic nod, “but Anwen claims it is easier to find books when the library is colour-coordinated. She says she often forgets book titles or authors but she _always_ remembers the colour of the cover.”

Cullen looks around the library then, noticing for the first time the repeating pattern of little rainbows on every shelf; it looks quite nice actually.

Cullen lets out a little huff of amusement. “She is utterly ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dorian responds with a smile.

The thought of Anwen tugs at something inside Cullen’s chest, something fragile and wanting, and suddenly the little rainbows seem somehow malicious – as if they’re mocking him in their cheerfulness. “I love her,” he says quietly.

The smile falls from Dorian’s face. “I know.”

Cullen steps back from the crate of books, now feeling very tired, and sinks down into Dorian’s chair, letting his body sag forward as he buries his face in his hands.

Dorian moves toward his friend, lifting his hand as if to touch him then deciding instead to just let it fall to his side. “No word of her I assume?”

Cullen shakes his head. _Nothing_.

“Don’t worry; wherever she is, she’s all right.”

Cullen’s head lifts slightly. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Dorian just smiles, weakly but there. “That’s because you’ve not seen her in the field as often as I have. Our Anwen is… a force of nature. There’s an elegance to the way she casts – but also a fierceness. It’s remarkable, really, considering how slapdash her training has been over the years. I would never admit it to her but she is… _far and away_ the superior mage to myself. Or at least – she certainly has the potential to be.”

Cullen lifts one brow at that, astonished to hear Dorian sounding so humble.

“Of course you mustn’t tell her I said that,” Dorian says with a flap of his hands, “she’ll be utterly insufferable.”

Cullen chuckles then – a sad and tentative thing – but oddly relieving nonetheless. Dorian _does_ touch him then, one hand coming to rest on Cullen’s shoulder, squeezing in the softest gesture of camaraderie, of shared pain at the loss of someone crucially important to the both of them.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Dorian continues, “it really _is_ easier to find books with the library colour-coordinated. But you mustn’t tell her I said that either.”

Cullen places a hand to his heart. “I will keep your many and sundry secrets to the grave.”

He stands then, patting Dorian vigorously on the shoulder – _thank you, my friend_ – before stepping round him toward the crate of books, intending on resuming their previous work of unpacking. But before Cullen can reach for another armful of books, a messenger comes jogging toward him, face flushed with exertion.

“Commander,” he says, nodding severely in greeting, “Lady Montilyet is requesting that you come to her office at once.”

Cullen looks at him puzzled, brows twisting. “Did she say why?”

“She only said that it’s of vital importance and that it concerns the Inquisitor.”

And with that, Cullen is running.

He doesn’t wait to dismiss the messenger, or thank him, or say anything at all – he only barrels passed, already intent on the stairs leading down to Solas’s rotunda, the Great Hall and Josephine’s office beyond.

Perhaps Anwen has returned; perhaps she’s safe in Skyhold at this very moment!

At the very least he assumes there must be word – one of Leliana’s scouts must have reported back with news.

He tries to steady himself, tries to rein in his rapidly rampaging thoughts – _it could be bad news_ , he warns himself; he needs to prepare himself for every eventuality. But he can’t help the happy scuttering behind his chest, the spreading warmth that’s slowly filling the empty void that has been growing and growing over the last few agonising days.

_Let it be good news, oh blessed Andraste, please let it be good news!_

* * *

Cassandra and Leliana are already in Josephine’s office when Cullen arrives, arguing in quiet but urgent voices from opposite sides of the Ambassador’s desk. They stop when he approaches, though no one says anything in greeting. That’s fine; Cullen doesn’t see the point in wasting words on pointless pleasantries anyway. Dorian has followed, though he must know that his company has not been requested, and he keeps his distance slightly behind Cullen – if anyone wants him gone, no one says anything.

“What’s going on?” Cullen asks, coming to a halt immediately in front of Josephine’s desk.

“We’ve received a letter,” Leliana responds.

“From one of your scouts?”

“From the Inquisitor.”

Cullen feels something move in his chest – a giddy little pattering – followed by a long whooshing sensation as all the tension that’s been gathering in every muscle is suddenly released. A smile comes immediately to his lips.

_She’s alive!_

“ _Apparently_ ,” Cassandra adds, throwing him a reproachful glare when she sees his smile, a stern warning against any premature celebration.

“Cassandra has her doubts,” Leliana says with a shrug, “which I do not share. I think the message is genuine, despite its… _unusual origins_.”

“ _Unusual origins_ – what does that mean?” Cullen asks.

“The message came from a Red Jenny,” Josephine says, rising from her seat. “She gave it to one of my diplomats in Lydes who sent it back to Skyhold.”

The Red Jennies? Now that _is_ a surprise. Why wouldn’t Anwen just seek out one of the Inquisition’s camps and then send her message back with one of their ravens? Unless, of course, she’d found herself in a part of Thedas without an Inquisition presence – the Inquisition has been steadily increasing its influence across Orlais and Ferelden day-by-day but there _are_ still areas where the Inquisition presence is thin.

“That _is_ unusual,” Cullen says, “but not perhaps overly suspicious. Maybe they were just the most convenient way to send us a message?” 

“That’s what I said!” Leliana snaps, hands gesturing toward the sky in frustration, and Cullen wonders how fierce her argument with Cassandra had grown before he’d arrived in Josephine’s office.

“That may be the case but I still think caution is wise,” Cassandra says, folding her arms defensively. “We’ve already been tricked by one copycat so far – I do not want us to fall prey to another. There is no way to know for certain whether the letter came from Anwen or… someone else – which is why I recommend we send Leliana’s scouts to gather more information before—"

“The letter is requesting urgent assistance!” Leliana interrupts forcefully, “if I send a scouting party to verify the information in the letter, we are wasting precious time which may undermine Anwen’s efforts in stopping these Venatori she has encountered.”

“Can I see this letter?” Cullen asks, deciding to step in before Leliana and Cassandra start arguing again.

Josephine hands him the letter and he reads it eagerly, eyes flitting hurriedly over lines and curls that are so achingly familiar he can’t stop his hopefulness from swelling (no matter how much Cassandra is counselling caution). He can feel Dorian step closer behind him, reading the letter over Cullen’s shoulder.

Anwen’s letter is addressed to all three of the War Council members, the word ‘urgent’ written just below the address, underlined emphatically. She starts by describing the ambush of her travelling party in the Exalted Plains and her resulting capture by the Venatori. She briefly mentions her escape, though no details of how exactly such a feat was achieved, then describes how she ended up wandering directionless through the Dales for a time before she managed to find her way to a village she knew to have a Red Jenny presence.

The final few paragraphs outline her intended plans. She’d returned to the underground complex where she’d been held captive only to find it abandoned – but, thanks to Red Jenny contacts, she believes she has discovered the location of the Venatori stronghold in the region. Her letter requests immediate Inquisition support in order to storm this stronghold.

The letter is straightforward and relatively short – using the professional tone of voice Anwen uses in her official reports rather than the more conversational one she saves for her personal correspondence to him. It does _sound_ like her – but then it’s polite enough that it could really have been written by anyone. And while the handwriting also looks like hers – it’s not unfeasible to think that the Venatori could have obtained a sample of her writing and then copied that just as easily as the woman sitting in Skyhold’s holding cells has copied Anwen’s face.

But then he reaches the end of the letter, reads the very final line, and he knows – he knows _without a shadow of a doubt_ – that the letter is real; _it’s really Anwen._

At the bottom of the letter, written in her elegantly curled script, it reads, “postscript. Mage to D5. Mage takes Tower.”

He smiles, remembering all the time they’ve spent together playing chess – her childish pouts when she loses, her utter, unbridled glee when she manages to capture a particularly valuable piece.

“It’s her,” he says, handing the letter to Dorian so he can finish reading it, “it’s definitely her.”

“How can you be so sure?” Cassandra asks, curiosity in the lines of her frown as she looks at him.

“I just am,” he replies, not wanting to waste time by trying to explain the chess game. “We need to put together a travelling party at once – this location she specifies for the Venatori stronghold is only a few days’ travel from here. I want to take Scout Harding, of course, and a few of my soldiers. Probably Bull too, and you, Cassandra.”

“You’re going as well, Commander?” Cassandra asks.

“Yes,” he says, and though his answer earns a few raised eyebrows, he’s glad that no one seems inclined to object. He needs to do this; needs to see for himself that Anwen is safe and sound. He owes it to her after he’d so spectacularly failed to uncover her doppelgänger.

“I’m coming too,” Dorian says, folding up the letter once he’s finished reading it and handing it back to Josephine.

“Good,” Cullen says with a nod, then before anyone can waste any more time with words, he turns and starts walking out of Josephine’s office. “I want to leave as soon as possible, as soon as we’ve gathered our equipment and saddled the horses,” he calls over his shoulder. He can hear the rest of the War Council offer their assent, although the words are muffled as he’s already half-way out the door leading to the Great Hall. 

This time when Cullen walks through Skyhold, he’s no longer wandering aimlessly, he’s striding with a clear, unalterable purpose. He hurries across the Great Hall toward Solas’s rotunda and the quickest route back to his office, eager to gather his equipment as soon as possible and get onto the road.

It’s been too long already; too long since he’s seen Anwen’s smiling face, too long since he’s heard her laughter or her biting wit.

It’s time he brings her home.

* * *

Anwen pulls her hood back as she leans forward from her vantage point and looks out across the Maida Vallee estate stretching below her. The rain has stopped, at long last, and the hood is more a hindrance than a help now, blocking her peripheral vision and muffling her hearing.

She needs to be alert tonight – needs to be wary of every sight and sound.

Standing on a high ridge at the northernmost edge of the estate, she has a good view of the grounds below, from the stables and the stone-trod yard, across the formal gardens, and all the way to the summer house and then the main chateau itself. The chateau is a grand affair – as overly elaborate as one would expect for Orlais – all columns and curved roofs and ornate tracery on every gable. Under different circumstances she would have loved to take her time and soak in all the beautiful details; Anwen has always been a sucker for Orlesian architecture.

But there’s no time for sight-seeing tonight; tonight, Anwen has Venatori to kill.

She turns to her side and raises a brow at Sera in silent question. _What do you think?_

“Looks easy enough to get inside,” Sera responds with a one-shouldered shrug, “the wall in the north-east corner backs right up onto this ridge – should be easy to jump across. Then we just run through the flouncy trees to the main house. There are people inside who like the Jennies – they’ll help us.”

Anwen nods in understanding then looks over Sera’s shoulder at the other Jenny allies that have agreed to help her. Horace, the dwarven man from the Rose and Crown tavern, stands immediately next to Sera, a pair of daggers glinting dangerously in his hands. Beyond him, Prudi, an impressively well-muscled elven woman with keen, sharp eyes is bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet, her heavy mace held at readiness. 

“The outhouse is not being used anymore,” Horace says, eyes darting quickly to look at Anwen before returning to the grounds below, “according to a friend of mine still working at the estate, it’s being used to store furniture. That suggests they’ve emptied out several of the rooms from the house – probably to make room for their equipment. You said they’d been carrying out experiments, right?”

Anwen nods, hoping that none of her companions noticed the little shiver that rolled down her back when Horace mentioned _experiments_. “Yes – the compound where I was being held was filled with scientific equipment. Some arcane objects too. It makes sense that they would have moved all that stuff with them here.” 

She’d been disappointed when she’d returned to the Venatori’s laboratory with her Red Jenny allies only to find it completely empty. Disappointed but not surprised. Their quarry had escaped, leaving a path of destruction in her wake, and they must have assumed that she would return to finish the job. It makes sense that they’d gathered their equipment and ran.

Not that running would save them.

Prudi had proven a skilled tracker, and Horace’s network of informants seemed to stretch throughout the entire region, and it had been relatively easy to locate the Venatori stronghold at the Maida Vallee estate. Now it was only a matter of storming the stronghold and defeating the Venatori mages working within.

And this time, Anwen won’t let anyone get away.

Prudi steps forward, twisting her mace in her grip as if just itching to give it a good swing. “Well are we going to just stand around here yammering on or are we going to go smoosh bad guys into a pulp?”

Anwen feels a small tug curling at the corners of her mouth. Prudi makes an excellent point: it’s time for less talking and more smooshing. The tugging turns into a full, toothy smile as she jerks her head toward the estate below. “Let’s go fuck up some Venatori shit.”

There’s a cackle as Sera takes her bow from her back, and Prudi and Horace exchange their own crooked smiles before nodding at Anwen to take the lead. Then the three of them are off, hurrying through the undergrowth that lines the ridge until they’ve reached the point where the wall of the estate is only a small jump away. They clear the wall with ease (apart from a small stumble and a few choice curse words from Horace) before making their way through the formal gardens, keeping their bodies bent and their heads low as they weave through the meticulously manicured hedgerows.

The large chateau looms ahead, lonely and cold and shrouded in gloom. It had looked pretty from the ridge, grey and delicate like a charcoal picture. But from the ground it just looks foreboding. The lingering rain clouds have choked out the moons and stars, cloaking everything below in blackness. Anwen can’t even see much light coming from inside the house; only a few windows lit by a weak, greasy glow.  

Their pace slows as they near the house, growing more cautious, eyes sweeping the surroundings in search of patrols. The security at the estate seems peculiarly meagre, with no patrols in sight and only a few standing guards. Perhaps the Venatori thought that a heavy guard presence was unnecessary, that their secrecy would be their greatest protection. It suggests an over-confidence, Anwen thinks, an arrogant carelessness that she is happy to exploit.

There’s a group of guards by the main entrance, but only a pair of men by the servant’s entrance at the back of the chateau. Sera fells the first with an arrow to the throat then fells the other before he’s even had a chance to react. The bodies fall to the rain-slicked grass with soft thuds and though Anwen watches the front of the house with a spell ready on her fingertips, none of the other guards seem to notice, quietly chatting amongst themselves while huddled under the ornate portico of the main entrance. Prudi drags both bodies into a nearby bush – grumbling something under her breath that sounds a lot like “the next one’s mine” – before Sera picks the lock to the servant’s entrance and they all slink into the chateau.

The few startled whelps that emerge at the sight of the interlopers are quickly shushed when the staff realise that it’s Jennies approaching, and not more Venatori.

“Horace, thank the Maker,” a grey-haired woman exclaims as she steps forward, “I told them that the Jennies would help us, _I told them_ , but no one—"

“There’s no time to talk,” Horace interrupts with a stern voice, though he places his hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, “I’ve brought the Inquisitor with me, we’re going to deal with these Venatori once and for all.” 

The elderly woman’s eyes go wide when Anwen waves at her with her anchor-marked hand, the faint green fracture in her skin shimmering in the dull candlelight of the kitchens, before she falls into a small bow. Anwen tries hard not to cringe, it seems awfully ungallant when all the woman is trying to do is show her respect. But while Anwen doesn’t mind the Inquisitor title, or even the general deference people show her, the bowing just seems a step too far.

“That’s not necessary,” Anwen says as she takes the elderly woman by the hand, gently pulling her upright, “we’re just here to help. Now – please – can you tell us where the Venatori are within the chateau? And how many?” 

“Some will be in the bedrooms, but most of them are in the basement with their experiments. All day and night, _someone_ is doing _something_ down there.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she continues, “it’s unnatural, whatever they’re doing. Blood magic, I’d wager, and I don’t want anything to do with—"

“How many are there?” Anwen asks again, trying to convey with her eyes the urgency. The longer they stand around the kitchens chatting, the higher the chance is that they’ll be caught.

The elderly woman shrugs feebly. “I don’t know – at least ten. Maybe fifteen. Twenty even.”

Anwen nods, turning to her companions. “A few upstairs asleep, the majority in the basement below. What’s our plan?”

“I’d say let’s off the sleepers first,” Horace suggests, casually flipping his daggers as he speaks, “it’ll be quiet – then head downstairs. If we go to the basement first, the fighting might wake those upstairs and then they’ll come down as reinforcements.” 

“Agreed,” Anwen says with a nod to her companions before turning her attention back to the elderly woman, “gather all the staff in the servant’s quarters – _quietly_. Stay out of sight, stay safe, and don’t move until one of us says that it’s all right. Understood?”

The elderly woman nods, then turns to a group of nearby kitchen maids and ushers them closer before whispering some instructions and pointing toward the pantries at the back of the room.

Content that the servants will keep themselves out of harm’s way, Anwen beckons at her Jenny allies to follow before leading them out of the kitchens.

Most of the chateau is empty, its rooms eerie and lifeless, occupied only by the hollow stares of the oil paintings that line each wall. Anwen and her companions step-toe silently through the corridors, peeking in each room and dispatching any unsuspecting Venatori within as quickly and quietly as possible.

Horace is the best at this, slipping silently into each room and ending his victims with a clean slice of his blades against their throats. Prudi grouses about being bored, her body thrumming with impatient energy, but Anwen is just grateful that the Venatori have given little resistance so far. She remembers all too well the brutal fighting as she tried to escape her underground prison – remembers her aching limbs, remembers the raw surging of magic, jagged and angry, as she’d torn mercilessly into her former torturers.

It had been ugly – had unleashed something ugly in her – and it’s not an experience she’s keen to repeat.

Once they’ve cleared all the chateau’s rooms, they start making their way downstairs and toward the basement. There’s a small stone staircase at the rear of the building, far narrower and plainer than the grand, wooden staircase that sweeps up the centre of the chateau. Sconces are positioned sporadically along the walls – casting faint, flickering halos of orange against the rough stonework of the stairwell – but there’s not enough light to reach the floor below, and the last few steps seem to stop into nothingness.

Anwen takes the lead, taking each step cautiously as she descends to the floor below, deciding not to call a magelight to her hands in case the spell draws the attention of the Venatori below.

“There were only a few of those fuckers upstairs,” Sera notes as they descend to the basement, “which means it’s about to get fucking messy.”

“We’re going to be badly outnumbered,” Horace says, though he doesn’t sound panicked; it’s just an observation.

“So what?” Prudi responds with an amused chuff of air. “The more the merrier; we can take them.”

Anwen begins to feel a flaring of her nerves, a peculiarly strong fluttering behind her ribs, and she starts to wonder whether it would have been better to wait for Inquisition back-up to arrive. There are a number of Templars among the Inquisition’s ranks, and their abilities would obviously be invaluable against a cohort of Venatori.

But as useful as the Inquisition would be right now, Anwen knows she can’t wait around and just _pray_ for their arrival. She doesn’t know whether her letter made it to Skyhold in time, or whether it made it there _at all_. And if it did arrive, she has no idea whether anyone believed it. Maybe the mage wearing her face got to it first, destroying it before anyone else had the chance to read it, or passing her words off as the ramblings of a madwoman. There are too many variables, too many ways that things could have gone wrong – and there just isn’t time to wait and see if the Inquisition will come to her aid.

She has to end these Venatori _now_ – before they get away.

_Again_.

Anwen clenches and unclenches her fists as she steps carefully down the stairs, feeling keenly the absence of her staff as she prepares herself for the inevitable fighting ahead.

_Not that she needs a staff_ , as she reminds herself again and again. Anwen had been an apostate for years and _never_ used a staff to focus her magic; after all, carrying a staff in public was hardly the best way to pass incognito. But she’s got used to wielding a staff since joining the Inquisition, since learning just how helpful a staff can be to centre and channel her magic, giving it greater strength, _focus_.

There’s also something comforting, she thinks, in the feel of her staff, the cool smooth shaft, feeling sturdy and powerful. There’s an odd tingling when she places her fingertips against the everite, not magic itself but the _potential_ for it.

The bottom of the staircase leads into a short corridor, at the end of which is a wide, wooden doorway. She suspects there’s a much larger room beyond it, probably a wine cellar originally, and she leans against the door to press her ear against the wood. She can’t really hear anything from the room beyond – but she can _feel_ the palpitating pulse of magic, curling, throbbing, almost calling to her.

Her left palm starts to prickle.

Anwen sucks in a quick breath and turns to her companions. “Definitely Venatori ahead,” she whispers urgently. “A lot of them – I can feel a lot of powerful magic. Prudi,” she points at the woman, “I want you to charge in front. Horace,” she points at him next, “you flank down to the right. Sera and I will thin the crowd from the doorway.”

Everyone nods in understanding, Prudi with a wicked grin and Horace with a professional severity. Sera looks a little anxious, probably less than enthused to face so many magic users, but she’s trying to hide it under a lop-sided smirk and Anwen offers her friend her own small smirk in return.

“Let’s do this!” Prudi shouts before throwing her shoulder against the wooden door and forcing her way into the room.

She’s gone as soon as she’s over the threshold, barrelling forward into an unsuspecting Venatori mere feet from the door. The others follow, Horace disappearing from view as he stalks into the shadowed edges of the room and Sera’s bowstring ringing like a harp as she unleashes her first volley of arrows into a small cluster of people huddled to the left.

Anwen’s hands are already crackling with power as she steps into the room, and she’s barely had time to raise them before the magic comes surging forward, a great arc of lightning that skips from person to person with a sickening pop and crunch. There are screams, a familiar hiss as a few barriers are put into place, and then muffled thuds as those too slow to react fall to the stone floor.

Her companions are moving fast, attacking with a surprising level of finesse given that they are mostly strangers and have had little time to get acquainted with each other’s fighting styles. Prudi ploughs through her opponents like an avalanche, her great mace making quick work of poorly-armoured mages, while Horace dances between fights like a hummingbird between flowers, daggers moving at such a speed there are only brief flashes of silver before there’s a spray of red and Horace is moving again. And all the while, Sera fills the air with arrows, tripping off her fingers with such speed there’s hardly even a pause between firing.

And yet Anwen – Anwen is moving slowly, _steadily_. She takes her time to read the room, to make note of her allies’ movements before selecting her next target and unleashing a carefully cast whorl of magic, a flash of electricity here, a bolt of ice there. She’s trying to find a balance, a balance between the raw rush of power she’d felt before in the cave, and the careful control she’s always dutifully maintained. The magic is still surging to her fingertips hot and heady – but she’s trying to think, to be _analytical_ rather than lose herself to something more primal.

She thinks she’s doing a pretty good job so far.

But then she sees the tall man.

He stands at the farthest end of the room, putting some unknown arcane object aside so that he can grab his staff, and when his eyes catch hers, his lips curl into the same smug sneer he’d worn whenever he’d spoken to her, whenever he’d leaned over her restrained body and pushed waves of agonising magic into her body.

There’s a burst of sudden hot anger, followed by a slowly building rage, and all thoughts of control are pushed aside as Anwen starts running across the room. She summons the Fade with every step, using magic to propel her forward, blurring across the flagstones and leaping across benches and tables with an acrobatic ease.

He lifts his staff as she approaches and, without a staff of her own, Anwen finds herself reaching toward him with fingers curled into claws, as if she intends on ripping him apart with her bare hands (which perhaps she would, if given the chance).

He taps his staff against the stone floor and a great wave of energy is released, sending Anwen flying back and crashing into a wooden table laden heavily with glass equipment. She lands painfully, one arm trapped beneath her, broken glass piercing through fabric to bury into skin. From her prone position she can see the tall man stalking closer, raising his staff for another attack, and she picks herself up as quickly as she can, pushing small bursts of healing magic across her tattered skin.

Spirals of magic are convalescing at the glaived end of the tall man’s staff and Anwen throws out a quick dispel spell before he can send his next attack at her. He swears under his breath, raises his staff to start casting again, but Anwen beats him to it, engulfing him in a cloud of ice with a snap of her fingers. She can hear satisfying screams as the sudden drop in temperature causes his skin to blacken and burn, his limbs turning brittle and weak under an onslaught of ice and wind. It’s a powerful attack – one that normally cripples even the most hardy of opponents – but through the whipping winds of silver and blue, Anwen’s sure she can see the tall man _smiling_. 

There’s a pop and a sudden gust of warm air, and Anwen watches in dismay as her Blizzard spell is cast aside, icicles dropping to the ground and splintering against the flagstones with an almost melodic tinkling. Without the winds obscuring her view, his smile seems even sharper, and it curls into something taunting and wicked as he raises his staff and sends a spiral of fire toward her, the lingering chill of Anwen’s smell immediately consumed by a bright _burning_.

She dodges out of the way – though not quite fast enough.

Her jacket catches light, from the right arm all the way down to the tails, and she shrugs out of the jacket just in time before the whole thing goes up in flames. She’s only just freed herself from the smoldering fabric when she feels something sharp jab into her calf, and when she looks down – it’s the fucking glaived end of the tall man’s staff, now neatly embedded in her leg.

She screams, blood immediately slicking her skin as the metal slides cleanly into her flesh.

_Fuck_.

There’s a deep, angry gash when he pulls the glaive free and his sneering smile somehow manages to broaden as he watches the thick rivulets of blood start to stream out of her leg and soak into the fabric of her trousers.

_Well fine_ , Anwen thinks, mimicking his sneer with her own curled lips, _if you’re going to stab me, just wait until I fucking stab you right back_.

She clasps her hands together and summons her Spirit Blade, the angry lines of her expression softened by bands of golden light as the weapon flashes into existence. The tall man’s eyes widen with surprise for only the briefest of moments before he attacks again, swinging his staff to send another fireball hurtling toward her.

She lifts her blade and parries the attack with ease, just as her instructor had taught her, bouncing the fireball back at him and rejoicing at his shocked little squeal as he leaps out of the way.

And then she’s on him – closing the space between them in only a few steps, bringing her sword down in great, heavy arcs. He lifts his staff to counter, catching each swing on the ironbark shaft, but Anwen is relentless. She hits him again and again, each strike ringing harder and harder against his staff until the tall man’s knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Even prone on the floor, he holds his staff in front of him, trying with all his might to keep her attacks at bay as she hits at him again, and again, _and again_. There’s a snarl on her lips, sweat beading along her brow as she swings her sword over and over, the ironbark staff creaking and groaning until, finally, the tall man’s staff is cut in two.

The broken pieces clatter to the ground, the tall man’s hands losing their grip as they tremble with exertion. Anwen lets her Spirit Blade fade then, picking up the half of his staff with the glaive on the end and holding it to his throat.

It seems more poetic this way, she thinks, ending this miserable man’s life with his own staff.

He’s whining below her, his face contorted with fear and despair as pleas for mercy fall mumbling and senseless from bloodied lips. It’s a piteous sight, his flesh scored with thousands of tiny cuts from the razor-like shards of ice in her blizzard spell, skin mottled with fat blotches of black, necrotic flesh. It’s enough to make her pause, the glaive hanging expectantly just a breath away from his neck.

She suddenly remembers how she felt in that underground cave, when she’d let her magic unravel with a frightening intensity. Sure it had felt freeing, to unleash her magic without constraints or limitations. But when the haze had cleared – when she’d stopped fighting long enough to look down at herself and see the blood of strangers splashed across her clothes – she’d been left with a gnawing emptiness. Looking now at the pathetic man before her, Anwen realises that there has to be some sort of balance between using her magic without shame and becoming lost to its power.

She throws the glaive aside then turns to her companions. “Stop!” she yells across the clamour of the fighting.

Horace and Sera immediately stop, though Prudi sneaks in a few more crushing blows before she finally lets her mace come to a rest.

“That’s enough,” Anwen says, “they’re done. We’ve won.”

Casting her eyes across the room, she can see that there are only a handful of cowering Venatori left, all of them baring the copious wounds of a fight they no longer have a hope of winning.

“Look for rope or something,” Anwen continues, “we’ll tie them up and—"

She stops at the sound of footsteps from beyond the room. Armoured feet on the stone staircase, descending fast.

_Oh piss it_ , she thinks, _reinforcements_. 

She should have seen this coming; should have known the Venatori would fight to the bitter end. The others seem to have come to the same conclusion at the same time, grim expressions falling into place as they lift their assorted weaponry in readiness.

Anwen summons her Spirit Blade again, though the golden energy seems to flicker and fade almost timidly. Without her staff to channel her magic, her spells have burned too hot, too fast, and she’s now running dangerously low on mana.

The fight to come will be a quick one, whichever way the outcome falls. 

The footsteps get louder, a steady clanging of hurried feet, and then the wide wooden door bursts open to reveal a cadre of men. _Soldiers_ , she realises, not more Venatori mages, all sporting a familiar silverite and sage green uniform.

_Inquisition_ soldiers.

And at their head, sword and shield drawn ready for battle, stands Cullen. 

_Cullen_.

His eyes scan the room with a soldier’s diligence, taking in the field, picking out enemies and allies, evaluating the best course of action. But then his eyes fall on Anwen’s and something in him snaps, his posture immediately softening. His sword and shield fall to his sides, all the fight seeming to rush out of him and leaving only weariness and relief in its place.

“Anni,” he murmurs, almost reverently, as he strides across the room, stepping over the many fallen bodies without so much as a glance.

Anwen moves forward too, as if drawn toward him, and her eyes never break away from his. She hears a dull thunk followed by a slightly sharper one, the sounds of his shield and sword as they’re dropped to the floor, and then before she even knows what’s happening, Cullen’s arms are around her and she’s being pulled against his chest.

He’s holding her in an almost vicelike grip, pressed tight enough against his breastplate to be uncomfortable, but it’s _Cullen_ – and he’s solid and safe and _here_ – and Anwen can’t find it in her to object. 

“Thank the Maker you’re all right,” she hears him whisper into her hair, and then there’s only murmured prayers – an endless litany of _oh Maker_ and _blessed Andraste_ – punctuated by small, soft kisses pressed against her crown. 

“Cullen?” she says, interrupting his prayers, pushing back slightly so she can crane her face up and get a good look at him. He looks exhausted – dark smudges around his eyes, an odd paleness to his usually golden skin – but there’s a warmth to his eyes, relief and pleasure giving them a soft glossiness. She lifts her hands to frame his face, thumbs stroking gently against his cheeks, one thumb dropping to trace the scar that bisects his top lip, and there are so many words fluttering through her head that she’s not sure which ones to start with. 

_Thank the Maker you’re here._

_I missed you._

_I love you_.

Instead all she manages is a slightly breathless, “you’re late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that it's half-way through the fic and Cullen and Anwen are only now in the same room together - this is apparently a pretty poor attempt at Cullen x Inquisitor fic.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anwen are finally reunited - and it's a bit weird.
> 
> This chapter was getting a bit unwieldy so I split it into two. I think it works a lot better this way but it means that this chapter is a little short.

Anwen hears a sharp intake of breath, and at first she fears she’s offended Cullen with her flippancy.

But then there’s a sigh – and his arms are somehow managing to pull her even tighter – and then he starts to _laugh_ , quiet, warm chuckles that puff against the messy halo of hair across her crown.

“You’re terrible,” he murmurs, bending down slightly to brush his lips against her temple, “remind me why I came to your rescue?”

“Because I’m delightfully charming, and witty, and well-dressed,” she suggests with a cheeky lilt of one brow, then adding, “and because you’re madly in love with me.”

He chuckles again. “Hmmm… Is that so?”

She nods decidedly, and though he pretends to pout and roll his eyes, she can see the force of his affection in the way that he looks at her. He leans back a little, just enough so that he can hold her eyes with his own when he says, “you’re right; I do – _I love you_.”

Her heart does this happy little pitter-patter thing, strong and riotous, and though she’s heard those three precious words countless times since the first time he’d said them the night before Adamant, her reaction is still just as intense. She’s not sure she will ever get used to hearing him say it.

“I love you too,” she says, delighting in the way his whole body seems to soften when she does, a pleased little smile spreading across his lips.

“Although… for the sake of accuracy,” she continues, her lips quirking into a teasing smirk, “I would hardly consider this much of a rescue; you _missed_ the hard bit. I had to rescue myself!”

She’d meant it as a joke, and he tries his best to smile at her in response, but Anwen doesn’t miss the shadow that flashes behind his eyes, the tension that makes his expression suddenly stiff. He looks – well, Anwen’s not sure _what_ that look is – embarrassment perhaps? Shame that his men had not been able to help in the fighting? Maybe he’s angry with her for attacking the Venatori stronghold without waiting for Inquisition back-up.

“Well – _quite_ ,” he says, and Anwen cringes at how terse he sounds, how clipped.

She opens her mouth to apologise – though she’s not entirely sure for what she should be apologising – but Cullen’s already stepping back, his arms dropping from their stranglehold around her so that he can turn to address his soldiers.

_Well shit_.

There’s an uncomfortable niggling feeling as he steps away from her – coldness, of course, now that his body is no longer pressed so close against hers, radiating warmth, but also irritation that he’d turned so suddenly awkward. She’s always teased him, fond but relentless, and normally he is happy to snark right back at her. She doesn’t understand why he’s reacting so strangely now to what was quite obviously a joke.             

She’s saved from her irritation by a crushing hug from Bull, her tiny frame squashed against his solid chest, then a smaller (though no less fierce) hug from Dorian. Both men start talking at the same time, their words tripping over each other as they bombard her with questions about her capture and subsequent escape. Anwen doesn’t even know where to begin, overwhelmed to finally be with her friends, _her family_ , and all she can manage is expressions of relief at seeing them, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

When Cassandra approaches, she finally does start crying, practically throwing herself into Cassandra’s arms. Cassandra goes stiff at first, then slowly lifts her arms to wrap around Anwen’s shoulders, a small chuckle escaping into the narrow space between them.

“I’m glad to see you are well, my friend,” Cassandra says, and though she doesn’t _grin_ like Bull and Dorian, there’s still a smile upon her lips. That smile falters as she steps back and fully takes in Anwen’s appearance; the dark circles around Anwen’s eyes, the sallowness of her skin, the angry burn stretched along Anwen’s right arm. “Well… relatively speaking.”

“Fuck me!” Bull suddenly shouts, “what happened to your leg?!”

Anwen looks down and cringes – _fuck_ ; it really does look a mess. There’s a long rip in her trousers, gaping to reveal a deep, jagged cut along her calf, and blood has seeped into the fabric, staining it from her ankle to over her knee.

Cullen had been on the other side of the room, issuing orders to his men, but Bull’s bellowing immediately draws his attention. He barks a few last orders before turning and stalking back toward Anwen, his men offering quick salutes before scurrying from the room. He doesn’t get too close – lingering awkwardly over Cassandra’s shoulder as if afraid to impose – but he cranes his head sharply to get a better look at Anwen’s leg, flinching markedly when he sees the bloody gouge in her skin. 

“It’s nothing,” Anwen insists, shrugging in a way which would have looked casual had it not been so rigid and ungainly. “It was just a _light stabbing_ ; nothing more.”

“Does it hurt?” Dorian asks, prodding the wound lightly with the end of his staff.

Anwen hisses, narrowing her eyes at him in warning, before catching herself and forcing her voice to sound casual and airy when she replies, “not much – my healing magic took the edge off.”

Her friends look unconvinced, glaring at her with a mix of incredulity and suspicion.

Cullen’s eyes start to drift higher, moving from her injured calf to take in every wound, every wearied tremble of her limbs, his face growing steadily bleaker as he takes in the sight of her.

Cassandra turns when she realises he’s standing there, eyeing him expectantly. “Commander?” she asks.

He suddenly jerks to attention, managing to pull his face away from Anwen and look at Cassandra. “I’ve sent some soldiers to survey the building in case there are still some Venatori hiding somewhere. The rest have been instructed to secure the prisoners.”

Anwen nods as Cullen gives his report then casts her eyes quickly around the room when she notices the absence of her newfound allies. “What happened to the Jennies?”

“They went upstairs,” Sera answers, “to check on the servants.”

Right, the servants – she’d promised to go to them once the fighting was done. And she supposes she should probably oversee Cullen’s soldiers as they capture and bind the surviving Venatori. In fact, now that Anwen thinks about it, there’s still just – _so much to do_.

“I should check on the staff,” she mumbles, “or – or help the soldiers check the house for more Venatori; they might need some support from a magic-user.” She attempts to step forward but her legs buckle beneath her, her right leg crumbling as soon as she tries to put weight on it; it really does fucking hurt.

Dorian manages to catch her in time, steadying her and holding her upright. “Anni, _stop_ , just…” Dorian’s words trail off as he shakes his head disapprovingly, “you don’t need to _do_ anything.” 

“Except maybe get some sleep,” Bull interjects, “or get ass-over-ears drunk. Or – shit Boss – maybe let someone take a look at that leg. You’re getting blood _everywhere_.” 

She laughs weakly then nods her agreement. “Sorry for not bleeding in a more _orderly_ _manner_ – but, yes, sleep; sleep sounds good.”

Sleep sounds more than just good – it sounds fucking glorious. Food too – it doesn’t even matter what kind; just as long as she can eat something that doesn’t scorch the back of her throat when she swallows. Anwen finds herself overcome with a powerful yearning – for rest, for healing, for sustenance – but most importantly, _she just wants to get out of here_. Away from the stench of blood and damp wood and the stiff itch of lingering magic. 

As they half drag, half carry Anwen out of the room, she spots the tall man hefted afoot by two of Cullen’s soldiers, his hands bound snugly behind his back. _It hardly seems enough_ , she thinks with a bright flare of panic, two painfully young-looking men flanking such a powerful mage. Evil of that magnitude surely can’t be held by mere rope – he needs chains, and runes and—

“Did you bring soldiers with Templar training?” Anwen suddenly asks Cullen.

He gives her a sharp look, as if mildly offended by the question. “Of course.”

“That one needs to be watched at all times,” she says, pointing at the tall man. “He’s the one behind all this.”

Cullen’s nostrils flare at that, and something hardens behind his eyes. “Him?” Cullen asks, jerking his head toward the tall man.

Anwen nods and Cullen bristles, expression darkening as his eyes narrow on the bound Venatori. Then he marches toward the tall man, grabs a handful of blood-stained robes, and punches him, square in the jaw. The tall man’s head jerks back, the whole room filled with the echoing smack from Cullen’s gauntleted hand hitting against the bony jaw.

The tall man smiles – and, _oh_ , has Anwen come to despise that smile – spitting out a few bloody teeth before sneering, “does that make you feel better?”

“Not particularly,” Cullen snaps back, “perhaps I should try another.”

Anwen’s not sure whether Cullen really intends on hitting the man again but she raises a hand to still him. “I want them all handed over to the Orlesian authorities.”

“The Orlesians?” Cullen asks disdainfully, still holding the tall man in a tight grip, the man’s toes just barely touching the floor. “You don’t want the Inquisition to deal with this?”

She shakes her head. “They’ve killed an Orlesian noble family and seized their property. That’s an offence for the Orlesian courts. And besides…” Anwen gives the tall man her haughtiest of looks, a well-practiced expression from years of looking down on people, “I’m done with them now; _they’re not worthy of my attention_.”

Anwen pushes slightly against Dorian until he loosens his grip on her. Lifting her chin, she strides out of the gloomy, ruined basement, marshalling all her strength so she doesn’t cringe with each step or crumble every time she places her weight on her tattered right leg.

This is the last time the tall man will ever see her and she wants him to remember her like this – not cowering in her cell, or writhing in pain on an examination table – but striding powerfully and confidently away, flanked by her allies, completely in control.

She wants him to remember her not as his prisoner, but as the Inquisitor.

* * *

The journey back to Skyhold is… _strained_.

Anwen sleeps more than she expected, deep and dreamless – unconsciousness claiming her the moment her head hits her bedroll. She thought the days she spent in that laboratory would linger in her dreams, just like the hellish vision of the future lingered with her after Redcliffe, or the Nightmare demon after Adamant. But her exhaustion seems, for now, more powerful than her nightmares, and she sleeps with a heaviness that surprises her – as if her body is trying to make up for the drug-induced non-sleep of her captivity.

As her strength comes back to her she’s able to heal herself, knitting together the torn flesh of her calf and soothing over the burns left behind by the tall man’s fireball. After only a few days’ travel, there’s only the faintest silver contour running down her leg – and she hopes that too will eventually fade (hopes keenly that there will be _no physical trace_ left on her body to remind her of those miserable days writhing on that examination table).

But what makes the journey so uncomfortable is the _questions_. Dorian is the most invasive, wanting to know what _precisely_ the Venatori were doing to excite her Anchor, what magic they were using, what concoction of Lyrium and magebane they were forcing her to drink (and how in the Void is she supposed to know the answer to that?!). And it’s not just Dorian - Bull, Sera, even _Cassandra_ (whom Anwen has never considered to be particularly nosey) asks her repeatedly about her capture and eventual escape.

She gives them vague answers, admits to having been tortured, but gives them no specifics. Partly it’s because she doesn’t want to think of her time in captivity – at least, not yet – not until the memories have had the chance to fade, to become distant and harmless instead of burning and bright. But more than that, she just doesn’t want to see her friends’ faces when she tells them – she doesn’t want them to look at her with pity or sadness or disappointment.

Not Dorian, or Cassandra, or _any_ of them – and certainly not _Cullen_.

_Oh Maker_ , Cullen.

Cullen is being… _odd_. Well, in all honesty, everyone is being odd. Dorian chatters away mindlessly and Cassandra looks at her with a peculiar softness. Even Sera is a little gentler with her, swearing less, lingering close but never actually touching her.

But Cullen is worst of all.

Sure he is pleasant enough. He never leaves her side, riding alongside her when they travel, sitting close around the campfire when they share their evening meal, but despite his nearness – _he seems so far away_. He talks to her with ease, easy chatter about books or music or whatever training drills he wants to try out next with his soldiers – but there’s none of his usual humour, the gentle teasing she would expect. He touches her frequently, perhaps to reassure himself that she really is there – but it’s shy and tentative, as if afraid that he might break her.

And he looks at her like the very sight of her _wounds_ him.

She understands that the last few days must have been hard for him – they were certainly hard for her, being away from him, _worrying about him_ – but his distance now is not exactly helping matters.

It’s a relief when they get back to Skyhold – because Skyhold is familiar and it’s _home_ and if there’s a place in Thedas where things will start feeling back to normal, surely it’s here.

When she’s handed her horse to Dennet and passed her equipment to a waiting squire, the first thing she wants to do – _needs to do_ – is see her doppelgänger.

All through her captivity, the thought of this woman running around her home, wearing her face, had troubled her immensely. It had pained her to think of the damage she could render, the relationships ruined, the careful work Anwen had invested into the Inquisition, torn apart by one woman’s casual cruelty. Her disquiet had only intensified when she’d reunited with the Inquisition and learned about what the Shapeshifter had done in her place – her cruelty toward Harding, inconsolable rudeness toward Josephine, the bitter fight that had seen Sera expelled from the Inquisition.

Cullen stays notably quiet during these conversations, apparently unwilling to talk about any of his dealings with the fake Inquisitor, and Anwen can’t help but be curious as to what he is hiding – what peculiar pain her counterpart has caused him

Cassandra originally offers to take Anwen to the holding cells but Cullen is oddly insistent that _he_ should be the one to take her – insisting, somewhat tenuously, that it’s important to keep the prisoner’s exposure to the rest of the Inquisition as minimal as possible.

They’re only a few feet away from the heavy door leading to Skyhold’s holding cells, just outside of earshot from the guards that Cullen had positioned there, when Cullen grabs her hand and brings her to a stop.

“I should warn you,” he whispers, “this will be… unsettling. I certainly find her so and she’s, well, it’s not _my_ face she’s wearing.” 

Anwen threads her fingers between his own, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she tries to take strength from his touch. “Yes, I… anticipate as such.” 

“And she will say things – _cruel_ things. I don’t… I want – remember that you are stronger than any mere words.” Cullen’s voice quivers slightly as he speaks and Anwen gives his hand another small squeeze, although this time she thinks it’s more for _his_ comfort than her own.   

After a brief moment to steal herself, she steps forward, letting go of Cullen’s hand as she pushes open the door, striding into the room with Cullen trailing just behind her.

The woman in the cell sits cross-legged on the floor, serene and unmoving, seemingly unconcerned by the creaking door and the sound of approaching footsteps. But when she glances briefly to the side and sees that it’s _the Inquisitor_ approaching, her whole posture changes, her back becoming stiff and her mouth gaping with surprise.

“Anni, my dear,” Not-Anwen says with a cloying familiarity, her surprise slipping away to leave something sickeningly sweet in its place. “I did not expect to see you here.”

Anwen stops a few feet from the bars of Not-Anwen’s cell. “No I expect you didn’t.”

“And if you’re here, then I supposed it means my illustrious compatriots have failed.”

Anwen nods. “I’m afraid so.”

“All dead I presume – struck down with the _righteous fury_ of Andraste’s own chosen one.” Not-Anwen rolls her eyes as she speaks, making it abundantly clear just what she thinks of Anwen’s holy title. Not that Anwen cares; it was not Andraste who saved her from her torturers but her own unbridled rage.

Anwen keeps her face calm, refusing to show anything except for an easy professionalism. “Not _all_ of them are dead – you’ll find I’m very merciful.”

“Ah – and is that what you’ll show me? _Mercy_.”

“You will stand before me in judgement and I will determine a suitable punishment for your crimes. You will be given an opportunity to defend yourself and, should you decide to cooperate – should you furnish us with useful information about Venatori activity – you will be granted mercy.”

Not-Anwen smiles, sweet and beguiling – it looks weird on Anwen’s own face. “Aren’t I lucky that the mighty Inquisitor is such a _forgiving_ leader.” She turns that smile toward Cullen then, and it no longer looks sweet, twisting into something hungry and cruel instead. “And I suppose you’re lucky too, Commander. You’re going to need forgiveness after what you did.”

Anwen’s head jerks sharply to look at Cullen, a pinch of confusion furrowing her face at Not-Anwen’s words. He looks to the floor, averting her gaze, and a furious blush starts to colour his cheeks – his reaction is far more worrying than anything the prisoner could have said, and Anwen feels something uncomfortable knotting in the pit of her stomach. 

“Oh – didn’t your noble Commander tell you?” Not-Anwen crows, untangling her crossed legs so she can stand and stalk closer to the bars of her cell. She wraps her fingers around the bars, pumps her hands up and down the metal in an oddly vulgar gesture, leering at Cullen even as her words are directed toward Anwen. “Your Cullen was _most welcoming_ to me upon my arrival. He’s such a giving man – and, Maker, did he _give it to me_ good.”

It’s a stupid innuendo and Anwen is trying hard to just dismiss it as some lie intended to hurt her. But then Cullen’s downturned face and slowly growing blush is giving unwanted credence to the prisoner’s words, pulling the knots in Anwen’s stomach tighter and tighter. She can feel the colour draining from her face, feel the awful empty feeling at the thought of Cullen being with someone else.

“I don’t need to listen to these lies,” Anwen says, crisp and authoritative despite the roiling in her stomach, “I hope you find your accommodations comfortable enough. I’ll see you at the trial.”

Anwen turns and marches briskly toward the door that will lead her away from this monstrous woman, Cullen shuffling after her like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t you want to know, Inquisitor, how his hands roamed across my skin?!” Not-Anwen shouts across the prison, “how his lips tangled with mine until I was left panting and breathless?!” The words roll like thunder as they echo around the empty room and Anwen _hates it_ when her feet stumble to an abrupt halt, her breaths coming quick and short.

Cullen raises a hand toward Anwen with a plaintive, “Anni…”

She bats him away, ignoring his pleading expression and turning to face Not-Anwen more fully. “I don’t want to know anything from you, Shapeshifter, unless it concerns the Venatori.”

Not-Anwen smiles, smug and triumphant, watching with a growing glee as Anwen fights to keep her emotions in check, fights to keep her expression composed even as she feels the doppelgänger’s words burrow under her skin, itching and pinching.

“How about the way he gagged with pleasure when I rode him?” she continues, “the way his hips bucked and reared as I ground into him? The look of pure ecstasy on his face when he came inside—”

“S-she’s lying – we never!“ Cullen interrupts before Not-Anwen can finish her sentence, stepping between the two woman as if he can physically block her words from reaching Anwen.

“Quiet, both of you!” Anwen snaps, and Cullen withers at her tone.

There are images swirling in Anwen’s mind – flashes of skin, of roaming hands, of Cullen and another woman who looks like Anwen but _isn’t her_. They’re painful images, and were Anwen any less capable of controlling her emotions she would be trembling under the weight of them.

But Anwen knows control. Anwen knows how to marshal her features, how to effortlessly slip a mask into place, and as she steps around Cullen to approach Not-Anwen in her holding cell, Anwen can feel a new persona slipping into place – someone colder, someone crueller. It’s not a mask Anwen often wears; Anwen usually favours accommodation over confrontation. But she has had _enough_ of this woman’s taunts – of snarling lips dripping with lies.

This woman is an interloper – how _dare_ she take Anwen’s rightful place.

Anwen steps forward, close enough to rest her forehead against the bars should she choose, and when she speaks, her voice is low and thick and _dangerous_. “I don’t care whether you’ve fucked every member of the Inquisition. _You_ are nothing – a shadow wearing a better person’s face – and _I_ am the fucking Inquisitor.” Anwen raises her hands and curls her fingers around the bars, Not-Anwen instinctually steps away, hands flying from the metal as if burnt. “Now I would take this time to think _very carefully_ about what you want to happen next. Because you can either cooperate with us, and give us all the information you have on Corypheus and the Venatori, or Commander Cullen here can take your head off with my Longsword of the Dragon. Have you seen my longsword before? It’s a nice blade – very ornate – largely ceremonial, though, and damnably dull. It might take a few blows to get through all that bone and sinew. It is not a… _dignified_ way to go.”

Anwen steps back and _smiles_ – crooked and cruel, a bare flash of white between her blood-red lips. She pauses, staring at Not-Anwen with an unwavering intensity until the Shapeshifter squirms, dipping her head to escape her glare.

And then she turns and walks away, sauntering calmly out of the prison with easy, languid steps.

Behind her, Not-Anwen gives out a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	8. Finding the Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anwen have A LOT to talk about...

Cullen likes to think he knows Anwen better than most – not just because they’re lovers, and before that, friends – but because he _sees her_ , not the Herald or the Inquisitor, just _Anwen_.

She doesn’t make it easy, masking her feelings with a practiced ease. Like a master painter, hiding the rough canvas below vivid, boldly coloured images. But while most people seem easily tricked by these façades, Cullen has always been rather good at seeing behind them.

After all, Cullen always been exceptionally observant; it’s the inevitable consequence of his years as a Templar, of spending every waking moment keeping an eye on the charges under his care. Cullen has spent a _lot_ of time _watching_ ; watching Apprentices for signs of possession, watching Enchanters for warnings that they might attempt escape. And watching Anwen.

He’s been watching Anwen since the very first time he caught sight of her.

At first it was because she was a stranger, and a mage at that, thrust into an unprecedented position of power. But then it was because, _well_ , she is utterly captivating and he can’t seem to take his eyes from her.

He’s memorised every single one of Anwen’s expressions – from the way her brows furrow when she’s reading, to the way her lips twitch when she’s trying not to lose her temper. He knows the exact slant of her eyes when she’s sad, knows the exact curl of her smile when she’s perfectly contented.

That is how Cullen knows Anwen is pissed right now – _seriously pissed_.

She’s smiling as she walks through the Great Hall, her gait easy and casual, proffering greetings in response to those she receives. But Cullen is not fooled. There’s a tightness behind her expression, a cloudiness in her eyes which betrays the lie in the lines of her smile. She’s trying too hard, focusing on maintaining her mask just long enough until she can finally be alone

Cullen follows closely at her heels as she weaves through the Great Hall towards, he suspects, the privacy of her quarters. He’s amazed at the steadiness of his steps, at his remarkable ability to match her pace without the slightest waiver despite fighting the strangely strong compulsion to just… _run away_ – after what Not-Anwen said in Skyhold’s prison, he can’t _bear_ the thought of trying to explain himself.

But he doesn’t run. Of course he doesn’t run. Because Cullen never runs. Cullen needs to resolve this; to explain his actions, explain everything that transpired between him and the Shapeshifter, and just hope and pray that Anwen will forgive him.

When she reaches the door leading to her quarters, she gestures for him to follow and they both ascend the long staircase in silence; a heavy, _uncomfortable_ silence. When they reach her quarters, he loiters awkwardly at the top of the stairs while she walks into the centre of the room, pacing back and forth a few steps before turning suddenly to face him, raking her fingers through her hair before taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Well… that was… predictably shitty,” she finally says.

Cullen doesn’t respond, just waits and watches for what he thinks is her inevitable outburst. But no outburst comes; Anwen merely stands and stares at him, her eyes piercing into him as if she can learn his secrets if only she stares at him hard enough.

There are no masks between them now – there never are when it’s just the two of them alone like this – and Cullen can see now just how hurt she is. Or lost? Her lips are pulled thin, her eyes round and heavy with the burden of unwanted thoughts. He knows what images are playing behind those eyes – she’s picturing what the Shapeshifter said, roving hands and panting mouths.

“Tell me you didn’t—"

“I _didn’t,_ ” he insists, interrupting her before she has the chance to finish her sentence. Whatever she was going to say, Cullen doesn’t want to hear it: _tell me you didn’t take her to your bed, tell me you didn’t fuck some complete stranger_.

Something shifts in her posture then, into something softer, less tense. And she shakes her head as if ashamed with herself for believing the Shapeshifter in the first place. He supposes he could leave things like that – just his firm denial – but then that’s not entirely the whole truth. And he can’t expect Anwen to be honest with him if he is not honest with her in return.

“I mean we… we _kissed_ … a, uh, few times,” he admits, his eyes falling to the ground, suddenly fascinated with the patterning on the rug below his boots. “And she – she came to my room one night.”

He looks up to gauge her reaction, sees her brows leap toward her hairline and the flash of pain behind her eyes that Cullen hates all the more because he’s the one who put it there.

“But nothing happened!” he adds quickly, stepping forward and reaching out with one hand imploringly. “It – _she_ was – I… I thought it was _you_ …” he ends rather pathetically.

She surprises him then by stepping forward and taking his outstretched hand, lacing her fingers with his before tugging gently to pull him forward. They’re standing barely a foot apart, their enjoined hands hanging in the space between them, and when she leans her head up to look at him, he’s relieved to see that some of the pain behind her eyes has fled. _Some_ of the pain – though certainly not all. There’s still a strange stiffness in her features, and a small quivering at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s fine – _I’m_ fine.” There’s a pause; she frowns, dissatisfied with her choice of words. “No – actually – I’m _not_ fine. This is… this – _shit_.”

He doesn't know what to make of her words. Is that forgiveness? Disappointment? He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, is relieved when she squeezes back.

“I hate the thought of her touching you,” she explains, “I hate the thought of her coming _anywhere near_ you.” Her grip tightens; so hard it almost hurts.

“I know, Anwen, and I’m sorry – I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

“Why are you sorry?” she interrupts, shaking her head in confusion. “She deceived you, _manipulated you_. I’m not mad – shit, Cullen – you think I’m mad with _you_?”

“I _should have known_ it wasn’t you! I should have been able to see through her illusion – I should have—”

“Shut up, Cullen,” she scolds, untangling her hand from his so she can jab him in the chest with a pointed finger. “Don’t you _dare_ feel guilty for something that wasn’t your fault! I’ve seen her, Cullen, and she’s pretty fucking convincing.”

“I should have figured it out.”

“Why? No one else did.”

“Cole did.”

She flaps her hands at him exasperatedly. “Yeah but – Cole is _Cole_. When you miraculously develop the ability to read people’s minds, _then_ I’ll hold you responsible for ferreting out shapeshifting imposters.” Cullen is surprised by the small huff of amusement that somehow escapes his lips, despite his tight frown.

She takes half a step forward and places her palms against his chest, and he can feel the warmth of her even through his shirt and jacket. She smiles, small and tender, and tilts her head back to gaze up at him with a fondness he doesn’t quite think he deserves. “Cassandra told me that it was _you_ who figured out who she was. That it was _you_ who imprisoned her. So that’s – you know – pretty fucking great of you.”

A smile manages to work its way onto his lips, and though he’s not sure he’ll ever free himself entirely of his guilt – guilt and utter mortification – Anwen’s words certainly _help_.

He lifts a hand to where hers rest atop the placard of his jacket, strokes his fingertips across her knuckles before catching both of her hands in his. He presses them tightly against his chest, just above where his heart is pounding. He’s not entirely sure how to express just how thankful he is – _thank you for understanding, thank you for forgiving_ – but he hopes she can feel this, feel the strong, urgent beating of his heart, and that that is enough.

Her expression changes again – smile curling into a frown as curiosity falls over her features. “How _did_ you figure it out – in the end? Was it something she said?”

He can feel a blush coming to his cheeks as he remembers that night. Not-Anwen coming to his room, her hips swaying as she’d approached his bed, the feel of her thighs pressed against his as she’d straddled him – how _damn excited_ he’d been before that terrible moment of realisation had struck. How _had_ he figured it out? It had been her expressions, he supposes, too sweet, too calm. Or the way she’d spoken, not enough humour, not enough swearing. But really, he knows _exactly_ what it was that had finally tipped him off.

“Ugh… it was – um – her _kiss_ , actually.” His blush grows. “The kiss was… all wrong.”

One of her brows arches sharply, and he braces himself for her rebuke. But instead she starts laughing, little unladylike snorts that shake her whole frame. He blinks at her in surprise. He’d expected her to be annoyed, upset at the thought of him kissing another woman. He doesn’t know what to make of her amusement.

“You're lying; that's- that's _ridiculous_!” she manages between soft chuckles.

“I'm not lying!" he insists, blush now stretching all the way from his cheeks to the side of his neck, "she was... _it_ was - vastly inferior!"

She rolls her eyes at him. "You shameless flatterer."

He knows that she’s teasing him, and she’s probably expecting him to respond with something dismissive or sarcastic, but while he's glad that Anwen is so amused by this whole situation, he _needs_ her to know that he's sincere, _needs_ her to know that his feelings for her can't be fooled by a mere shapeshifter. "I mean _every single word_ ," he says, fixing her with a heated stare. "Your kisses are... _dizzying_. Honestly, when you kiss me, it’s like... like everything in the world fades away. It’s just you and me… and more love than I ever thought possible. No pretender could _ever_ measure up to you.”

His words clearly surprise her, and Anwen does what she always does when Cullen says something painfully sentimental – ducks her head and studiously avoids eye contact. He half expects her to make some jest, something about stealing lines from the most trite of Orlesian romance novels (a favourite line when Cullen says something too earnest for her to handle), but instead she lets out a fluttering sigh, tremulous and fond.

Without warning, she raises onto her tip-toes and presses the quickest, feather-light kiss against his lips. “So what do you reckon?" she asks with a coy smile, “is it really me?”

He smiles back, lips still tingling with the lingering feel of her. "Without a doubt." 

It's not enough; such a brief brush of her lips against his. Now that he's had this quick taste, he remembers how much he's missed it - the feel of her, the taste, the frisson of energy like lightening every time her mouth touches his skin.

He raises one hand to her chin, lifts her head up so she can’t help but meet his eyes, then dips down for a _proper_ kiss, lips pressed chastely, _reverently_ , against hers. His other hand remains on top of hers, pinning them against his chest so she can feel how his heartbeat stutters every time he kisses her. He wants her to feel how she affects him – her, and _only_ her – something that no copycat could emulate.

There’s a contented hum at the back of her throat, and her fingers start to curl into his jacket, tugging him closer as she tilts her head back, angling her mouth against his _just so_ to deepen the kiss. Cullen is happy to oblige, his tongue dipping out to taste her, sweeping across her bottom lip then into her mouth.

Her hum turns into a low groan, the kiss becoming powerful and consuming as her lips move eagerly against his. His hand that was on her chin moves up, stroking along her jaw before tangling in the dark curls behind her head.

He was right – her kisses really are dizzying.

When she finally pulls away she presses a quick kiss to his chin, then the fluttering pulse point at his throat, and all the stress and worry Cullen felt when he’d first entered her quarters is now thoroughly forgotten. Anwen’s absence, the Shapeshifter in Skyhold’s prisons, his own inadequacy in failing to spot the deception sooner – none of that seems to matter now that he has the _real_ Anwen back in his arms, safe and sound.

She rests her head against his chest, her chin just above the point where their hands are still resting atop his heartbeat. “So are you going to stop being so fucking weird now?”

He scoffs. “I haven’t been weird!”

She jerks her head back to glare at him reproachfully before letting it fall back to its position against his chest. “You’ve been weird since Maida Vallee – all stuffy and severe. And you’ve barely _looked_ at me, let alone _touched_ me. Maker’s balls, Cullen, I’ve been desperate to see you for nearly two weeks and then when I finally do, you treat me like I’ve got the Blight.”

His body stiffens at her words, suddenly realising that – yes, fair enough – he probably has been a little strange around her. “I’m sorry, Anni, I really am. I guess…” He sighs, brings the arm not pinned between them around her shoulders to hold her closely against him. “I was embarrassed, _ashamed_ really, that I’d been so thoroughly duped by your doppelgänger.”

“Yes, well, I’ve already told you that’s stupid,” she admonishes, her words muffled against his jacket.

“Maybe it was stupid but – but it was still hard to look at you when I knew what had happened between me and… _her_.” He pauses for a long while, just enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the tickling of her breath as it puffs beneath his chin. There’s more he wants to say – _needs_ to say – but he hasn’t quite figured out the words.

He’s glad when Anwen stays silent – either because she can tell that he has more to say or she’s just contentedly enjoying the moment – because it gives him time to think everything through. When he starts talking again, his voice is small, almost painfully fragile. “I thought you might be dead. When weeks passed and we’d still had no word of you, I – I thought you might be dead.” He tightens his hold on her, as if trying to remind himself that she is very much still alive. “And it hurt – it hurt _so fucking much_. And even when I saw you again – I was _scared_. Because you were hurt and you were… _trembling_ and… and all I could think about was how close I came to losing you.”

Anwen lifts her head just long enough to press another kiss to the base of his throat. “You didn’t lose me.”

“I know.”

“You _won’t_ lose me.”

He shakes his head at that. And though he knows she can’t see his face from where she’s nestled beneath his chin, he frowns. “You can’t promise me that.”

“No I… I suppose I can’t.”

She pushes back against his chest until there’s enough room to snake her arms free and reach up, tangling both hands into the curls at the nape of his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

This one burns hotter than the last. It doesn’t start chaste and gentle before building and building – it’s like a brand, a bright burst of heat from the moment her mouth touches his. Her lips press firmly against him, caressing urgently, nipping gently at his bottom lip before soothing the spot with a swipe of her tongue.

It feels almost like an apology – an apology for all those days he’d spent without her, all those days spent thinking she was dead. But it’s more than that – it’s an apology for all those days still to come, the time spent apart as she tries with all her might to bring some peace to Thedas, to bring down Corypheus once and for all.

Most terrifying of all – it’s an apology for that day which Cullen hopes will never come, that day when she fails, and he really does lose her for good.

* * *

It’s remarkable, really, how much mess one woman can create in just a few days.

Not-Anwen had not lasted long in Skyhold, certainly not as long as she’d expected before Cullen had revealed her true identity – but it was apparently enough to piss off almost every inhabitant in Skyhold, and now Anwen was faced with the unfortunate task of having to placate everyone.

She’d had to apologise to the kitchen staff for some astonishingly specific culinary demands she’d made at some preposterous hour in the morning. She’d had to grovel to some visiting Orlesian dignitaries whose hats she’d apparently mocked. And she’d had to buy _so many rounds_ at the Herald’s Rest – for Scout Harding, for most of Bull’s Chargers, even to Sutherland’s would-be mercenary troupe (though she can’t for the life of her figure out why Not-Anwen would even bother taking the time to insult them).

It helps that Josephine had quickly invented some rare disease with rather spectacular symptoms to explain Anwen’s peculiar behaviour – and Anwen had managed to blame most things on vivid, fever-induced hallucinations. The downside of the ruse being that Anwen then had to reassure everyone that she was not about to keel over from sickness and, more importantly, that she certainly wasn’t contagious.

Josephine had been a pretty urgent priority for an apology as well – although Josephine insisted, of course, that no apology was needed. Still – Cullen had told her about the War Council and how astonishingly rude Not-Anwen had been in her place and Anwen just didn’t feel right about the whole thing until she’d baked a batch of Josephine’s favourite pastries and written a rather marvellously touching letter about how much she appreciated Josephine’s hard-work and friendship.

She’d even had to spend an afternoon trying to calm down Cole, even though her doppelgänger had apparently never even spoken to him. But he was agitated and twitchy and, in truth, Anwen felt a great deal of sympathy for him. Because _he had known_ – had tried to warn several people that the Inquisitor traipsing around Skyhold didn’t have the right thoughts – but no one had listened. Everyone was so used to Cole’s peculiar ramblings that no one paid attention when he started saying something important.

She’d gained a new respect for Cole then – realised with great humility and shame that she’d never appreciated just how _hard_ it must be for Cole, to be gifted with such wisdom but cursed with the inability to share it.

It’s after a long meeting with Bann Friden, many hours spent apologising for supposedly implying that Fereldens did unnatural things with farm animals, that Anwen finds herself in Skyhold’s library, desperately seeking the company of someone to whom she does not owe an apology.

“Well that was grim,” she moans as she clambers into Dorian’s favourite chair, their hips bumping and legs tangling as she squeezes herself into a chair only barely able to accommodate the two of them. Dorian mumbles something about personal space under his breath but makes no attempt to dislodge her, instead lifting one arm to make space for her and then curling it around her shoulders to keep her from falling.

Dorian flicks his eyes toward her for a moment before returning his attention to his book. “Oh dear, has Sera been baking again?”

Anwen snorts. “I wish – I would gladly accept food poisoning right now if it meant I didn’t have to go grovelling after any more uptight nobles.”

“Surely you must be done by now – I don’t even understand how one woman can upset so many people in such a short period of time.”  
  
“I know, right?!” Anwen exclaims with an exasperated flourish of her hands. In the tight confines of the chair she manages to thwack Dorian’s nose and he casts her a reproachful glare – which turns into an indulgent smile when she gives his nose a gentle, apologetic boop with her fingertips.

Anwen is quiet then, thoughtful and still, and though he pretends to carry on reading his book, Dorian can’t help but watch the unexpected fall in her features from the corner of his eyes. “You know I actually kind of envy her,” Anwen finally continues, her voice a little softer, as if afraid that someone other than Dorian might hear her confession.

“How so?” Dorian asks, brows peaking in interest over the cover of his book.

“Because Comte d’Iserre’s hats really are silly, and Bann Friden really does seem weirdly fond of sheep – and she was able to just… _say what she thinks_. I often feel like I’m just… playing a part. All smiles and curtsies and _yes please, Bann Whats-yer-name, please tell me about the fascinating world of crop rotation_.”

Dorian gives a quick snort of laughter, finally putting his book down in his lap so he can shift his attention more fully to Anwen.

“I wish I could… tell more people to _fuck off_ ,” she says, head dipping to look at her fingers where they tug absentmindedly at the beading on the edge of her jacket.

“You tell people to fuck off _all the time_ ,” Dorian counters.

“I tell Venatori and Red Templars to fuck off – which they never do, I should add. But I never say it around here.”

Dorian goes thoughtful for a moment, his expression strangely analytical before it shifts into something far fonder. “You know, I have always been astounded by your ability to slip seamlessly between roles – religious figurehead, woman-of-the-people, warrior mage, daughter of nobility – you play them all with remarkable ease.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anwen grouses, “I’m a good liar.”

“Yes, that’s part of it,” he agrees with a dismissive wave of his hand, “but you don’t just lie, you _empathise_ with people – it’s how you always know the right thing to say. It’s how you’ve managed to acquire so many allies so quickly. It’s why they made _you_ Inquisitor, and not Cassandra.” He pauses, pulling her hands away from her jacket before her nervous fiddling ruins its delicate embellishments. “I know these last few days have been pretty painful for you – and I appreciate that you’re frustrated with having to smile and curtsy and apologise for things that you haven’t even done – but… I am proud of you.”

“You’re proud of me?” Anwen asks, at first with wide-eyed astonishment and then with a growing smirk. “Maker, Dorian, you’re such a sap.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Yes well – I’m reconsidering my words now that I remember what an insufferable brat you are.”

She laughs then, and he soon follows, and their bodies are pressed so close in the chair that she can _feel_ the rumble from his chest. It’s an oddly comforting sensation.

“Although – having said that – should you decide to tell more people to fuck off, I will fully support you in that endeavour.”

“Thank you, Dorian, I appreciate your unflinching support in these trying times.”

“Anything to help the mighty Inquisitor.”

There’s a quick bark of laughter, though this time it’s not from Dorian, and when Anwen looks up she sees Cullen leaning casually against a nearby bookcase. “The mighty Inquisitor probably shouldn’t say _fuck_ any more than she already does – for Josephine’s sake, if nothing else.”

Anwen smirks. “Oh _piss off_ , Cullen.”

He laughs again, meeting her smirk with one of his own. “I think you’re spending too much time with Sera; I don’t remember you being this foul-mouthed in Haven.”

“I was restraining myself before – I wanted you to think I was sweet and ladylike.”

“Ah – so I have been deceived.”

“I’m afraid so. And now you’re stuck with me.”

His smirk fades into something small and achingly sweet. “I can think of worse fates.”

“Ugh,” Dorian groans, aggressively rolling his eyes at the both of them, “you two are truly obnoxious sometimes.”

Anwen and Cullen just smile at each other like idiots, happily ignoring Dorian’s grumbling.

Cullen straightens from leaning against the bookcase and takes a few steps closer, eyeing Anwen and Dorian with interest, bodies pressed close and legs intertwined in the tight space. “Should I be jealous?”

Dorian tsks. “Don’t be ridiculous; you know I only have eyes for you.”

Cullen laughs again, loud and bright enough that the noise carries and a few of Leliana’s ravens seem to squawk in response.

Anwen laughs too, elbowing Dorian gently in the ribs. “I suppose someone should break that to Bull then.”

Dorian sputters then, face flushed as he attempts to stutter out a denial, “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Don’t even try it,” Anwen snaps with a roll of her eyes and a stern jab of her fingers against his chest, “ _I’m_ the master liar, remember.”

Dorian opens his mouth, probably hoping for some scathing retort, but instead he’s left speechless, his mouth opening and shutting uselessly as an appropriate defence escapes him. It’s Cullen who comes to his rescue, pointedly clearing his throat before taking another few steps forward. When he starts speaking again, it’s far quieter than before, voice pitched low enough that it won’t carry across the library. “Anni, I was wondering whether you wanted to, um, finish our last chest match. It has been some time since we last played.”

She can’t stop the groan that escapes her lips. “Do we have to? After the day I’ve been having so far I’m not sure I can bear the indignity of losing to you _again_.” Her nose crinkles disdainfully and she rubs it with the back of her hand. “How about we do something that _I’m_ good at?”

“Drinking and electrocuting things?” Dorian suggests and Anwen nudges him sharply with her elbow in return.

“Har, har, Dorian,” she growls sarcastically, “how terribly droll you are.” She gives him a glare, then softens when a thought strikes, “although – now that you mention it – a drink or two sounds like a good idea. How about it, Cullen? The three of us at the Herald’s Rest? Maybe we can persuade Sera and Bull to join us?”

Cullen coughs, lifting one arm to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. Anwen is intrigued to notice a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. “Actually, I… ugh… I was hoping we could have some time together – _alone_.”

It takes a few moments for Anwen to realise what Cullen is saying and then – _oh_. Her eyes go a little wide, an eager smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and she’s already trying to find her footing, pushing away from Dorian, when she says, “right, of course, I too have the sudden and irrepressible urge to play a rousing game of chess.”

Cullen smiles as he extends a hand toward Anwen, helping her balance as she tries to extricate herself from Dorian’s chair as quickly as possible. There are a few muttered curses as Anwen’s flailing limbs smack into Dorian a few times and when she finally yanks herself free, she topples forward with a bit more force than expected and falls against Cullen’s chest.

He blushes – which is ridiculous considering that he’s basically just propositioned her in Skyhold’s library. But the gesture is so achingly Cullen-like that Anwen feels something warm and pattering spread through her chest.

“You two have fun,” Dorian says with a dismissive wave as he picks up his book from his lap. “Remember it’s less fun if you go straight to check mate.”

Cullen gasps and Anwen only grins, grabbing Cullen’s hand as she practically drags him out of the library.

“You’re frowning, Cullen,” Anwen notes as they walk across the Great Hall, both trying to appear as casual as possible so as to not draw attention to themselves as they slip away. “Dorian’s only teasing.”

“I like to keep our private lives… _private_.”

Anwen snorts a laugh. “I would avoid talking to Bull then.”

Cullen looks at her with confusion. “Bull?”

“He’s seen us kissing on the battlements – he has… uh… _suggestions_.”

Cullen’s blush darkens. “I thought we were being discreet!”

She laughs again, remembering too well her own mortification when Bull had confronted her with the truth about her not-so-secret affair.

But she can feel nervous energy coming off Cullen – clearly more than a little uncomfortable at the realisation that their dalliances around Skyhold have been more open to public scrutiny than he originally realised. Anwen knows how much Cullen hates the idea of being the subject of barracks gossip – though she knows he’s smart enough to realise that’s all but inevitable given that she’s the Inquisitor and he’s her Commander.

She gives his hand a squeeze where it rests in hers – hopes he finds the gesture as comforting as she’d intended it to be.

_Who cares about idle gossip? Let them talk._

Anwen’s practically buzzing with anticipation by the time she reaches the door to her quarters; after the busy last few days, she can think of nothing better than just being alone with Cullen. Sure they’ve tried to find time for each other since Anwen’s escape from the Venatori, but they’ve been interrupted every single time (and one time Anwen had fallen asleep just as things were getting interesting – which was embarrassing but perhaps not surprising considering what a shitshow the last few days had been)

But just as her hand presses against the door, she hears someone call _Inquisitor_ and it is with almost palpable reluctance that she turns to face the approaching messenger, a mask of calm acceptance slipping in place as she greets him.

At first Anwen thinks nothing of it – it’s not unusual for a messenger to interrupt her – but Cullen’s grip turns fierce as the messenger jogs closer, squeezing her hand almost painfully, and she can feel his entire body tense beside her.

“There’s been an incident in the holding cells,” the messenger says, leaning close and speaking quietly to avoid being overhead. Anwen feels her heart drop in her chest, already anticipating what the man will say next.

“The prisoner’s escaped.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	9. Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anwen's doppelgänger isn't done making trouble.

The first thing Anwen notices as she nears Skyhold’s prison is the urgent buzzing of conversation, quiet murmuring mostly but with the occasional sharp bark when someone loses their patience.

The next thing she notices is the smell. There’s the usual mustiness Anwen has come to expect from this part of Skyhold. But there’s something new cutting through the damp and the mustiness, something hot and crisp that makes her nostrils burn. It reminds her a little of when she casts, that lingering sharpness when she calls on her lightening, but it’s different too – a little drier, a little sourer.

Above it all hangs the bright, coppery tang of blood.

The guards she’d seen the last time she and Cullen had come to visit her doppelgänger are gone, the door to the prison gaping open to reveal a small circle of bent figures huddled around an indistinguishable mass of metal and flesh on the floor. Anwen finds her steps faltering, battling the sudden instinct to stay as far away as possible from whatever awaits her in the prison. She doesn’t want to take a closer look, doesn’t _need_ to take a closer look – she knows first-hand the damage that can be wrought when primal magic meets fallible flesh.

Everyone falls silent when Anwen enters the room, a dozen tense faces turning to face her expectantly.

“What’s happened here?” Anwen asks, though the mangled limbs of Cullen’s soldiers and the conspicuously empty holding cell at the far end of the room render her question largely moot.

A lone soldier is standing slightly to the side, face strained and sad, her sword held in such a powerful grip that Anwen thinks she can hear the metal creak with the force. “Karnas was f-feeding the prisoner,” she stutters, “when she attacked with her magic – I’ve never seen anything like it; it was like the ground just… _grabbed him_ … and crushed him into the stone.” She gestures feebly with her free hand, her sword arm just hanging limply to her side. “Swinson went to help but she… s-she crushed him too.”

“And what were you doing throughout all of this?” Cullen snaps from over Anwen’s shoulder, and Anwen doesn’t need to turn her head to imagine the storminess of Cullen’s expression; she can tell from the way the guard cowers that Cullen’s expression must be positively livid.

The soldier averts her gaze, eyes falling to the blood-smeared ground before thinking better of it and instead staring intently at the wall. “I-I t-tried to help. But – _but_ —”

“That’s all right, that’s enough,” Anwen cuts in, not interested in apportioning blame right now; she’s too preoccupied with thoughts of her doppelgänger to really care. “Just – do we know where the prisoner is now?”

A dozen silent faces stare at Anwen, seemingly at a loss for words. Then Leliana steps forward. “Unfortunately not – and given the prisoner’s ability to imitate appearances, it will be extremely difficult to locate her. We will need to carry out a systematic sweep of the entire fortress.”

“And look for what, exactly?” Varric asks, “as you said, she could look like anyone.”

“Look for anyone acting strangely,” Leliana suggests, though it’s clear from her tone that she is painfully aware of the inadequacy of her own plan.

Varric scoffs. “In the Inquisition, strange is kind of our hallmark.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Leliana snaps with unexpected sharpness, frustration managing to splinter her usually impassive façade, and Anwen can feel her brows raising in response to her friend’s unusual outburst. 

“Let’s focus on containment for now,” Anwen says, lifting a hand to draw all attention to her, “we can’t let a mage this powerful escape.”

Cullen nods in agreement, “I’ll order the guards to close the gates at once.”

Josephine bristles a little, her brows pinching together. “That might cause alarm – our guests might not like being treated like prisoners. We will need to explain the situation to our guests in order to allay their concerns.”

“We cannot let knowledge of this woman’s existence spread beyond this group,” Cassandra cuts in sternly, slowly casting her eyes across the Inquisition’s inner circle, “we cannot predict the kind of alarm she could cause.”

Josephine frowns at Cassandra’s interruption. “Of course not. I wasn’t suggesting we tell our guests the truth – but we will need to come up with a convincing cover story to explain the closed gates and keep people to their rooms. It’ll be easier to search the castle if everyone stays put.”

Cassandra opens her mouth as if to respond but Anwen lifts a hand to stop her – time is of the essence and the longer they discuss the situation, the more likely their prisoner will escape. “It’s decided then. Cullen, close the gates; no one comes in or out. Josephine and Vivienne, I want you to keep our illustrious guests in line. The rest of us will split into pairs and search the fortress room-by-room – look for something… _even more strange_ than is the norm around here.”

A short discussion follows as Anwen’s inner circle split into pairs and select sections of the fortress to search. Most faces look sceptical, though some are better at hiding their doubts than others, and Anwen can’t really blame them. She knows their plan is woefully inadequate; she knows that the prisoner is likely long gone, disappearing into the Frostbacks before Cullen’s guard had even had the chance to raise the alarm. There is no logical reason for the prisoner to loiter long enough to risk capture.  

But then… there’d been something about Anwen’s earlier conversation with the doppelgänger which made Anwen think that she might not choose the _logical_ choice, choosing the most disruptive one instead. It had been clear from the woman’s ever-present smirk and mocking words that she’d delighted in the chaos she’d wrought. Perhaps she’d stay and carry on tormenting the Inquisition until her eventual capture or death. She’d already admitted that she’d fully expected to die on this mission – had hoped only to cause as much mess as possible before she did.

While Anwen is resigned to finding nothing, there’s a small but vocal part of her which is absolutely certain that the doppelgänger still remains within Skyhold’s walls – all they have to do is find her. Hopefully before she has the chance to do any more damage. 

Anwen and her inner circle leave Skyhold’s prison with dark, stony expressions, exchanging only a few final parting words of advice before splitting for their respective tasks. Anwen and Sera head straight for Skyhold’s lower level, starting at the kitchens first before heading toward the centre of the fortress and the staircase leading up to the Great Hall.

The kitchen staff chat amicably with Anwen and Sera as they pass through – clearly unawares of any mischief happening within the fortress – and both women leave the kitchens with fingers left sticky from honeyed buns but no further information as to their quarry’s whereabouts. They encounter no one else as they wind their way through each room and Anwen is certain that their search will prove fruitless.

She’s surprised that this thought doesn’t bother her more than it does.

It would be best for the Inquisition if the doppelgänger was found, Anwen knows this, but if she’s completely honest with herself, she also wants the woman to just – _disappear and never come back_. It would certainly be easier than putting the woman on trial, trying to come up with some suitable judgement. Mostly, Anwen doesn’t want to be reminded of how a stranger had worn her face to terrorise her friends, to terrorise Cullen, while she’d been writhing, _helpless_ , on some examination table. 

But then she can’t let some woman run around wearing her face, causing trouble in her name – her pride simply won’t allow it. And so she carries on searching dutifully, trying to ignore that clawing uncertainty that, sooner or later, she’s going to have to figure out a more permanent future for the doppelgänger.

“This is fucking dull,” Sera groans as she slams the door to the wine cellar shut, a little more forcefully than really necessary.

“Agreed,” Anwen says with a sigh, turning slowly on her heels before nodding across the small hall toward a staircase in the corner.

Sera falls in step beside Anwen. “Cullen should have just killed her the moment he figured out she wasn’t you.”

Anwen frowns. “He wouldn’t do that.”

For some reason, despite all the misery this woman has brought into Anwen’s life, the thought of Cullen killing her seems wrong somehow. “Cullen wouldn’t kill a potentially useful source of information. He must have deduced that she was part of a wider plot and taken her prisoner so that she could provide the Inquisition with invaluable intelligence.”

Sera hmms non-comitally at Anwen’s comment, clearly unconvinced with her reasoning. “Pfft. That’s not why he didn’t kill her. For someone so smart, you can be really stupid sometimes.”

Anwen turns to face Sera, one brow arching sharply while her nose wrinkles disdainfully at the word ‘stupid’.

Sera just smiles at her. “He couldn’t kill someone wearing your face.” 

Huh. That hadn’t occurred to Anwen; she’d assumed Cullen had done the practical thing in capturing the doppelgänger. It hadn’t even occurred to her how difficult it must have been for him to turn on a woman he thought to be _her_.

“You’re really fucking smart,” Anwen says, reaching out into the space between them to give Sera’s fingers a gentle squeeze.

Sera turns, and Anwen expects her to say something snarky. But instead she just smiles, something gentle and touched curling at the corners of her lips.

And then there’s a flash. 

And a thunk.

And Sera’s smile is shattered as a blood-curdling scream is loosed instead. 

It takes a moment for Anwen to realise what’s happening; an arc of lightning skittering up Sera’s limbs at the same time as she’s sent flying across the hall by a clenched fist of stone and dirt. Sera hits the wall with a sickening crunch then flops to the floor, her body crumpled like a broken rag-doll, and this time it’s Anwen’s turn to scream.

When she turns to face their assailant, Anwen can’t help but startle when it’s her own face smirking back at her.

“What was it you said to me?” Not-Anwen muses with a smirk, “ _you will stand before me in judgement_? Well – _here I am_ , Inquisitor – bring on your judgement.”

There’s ice at Anwen’s fingertips before she even has the time to think and when she raises her palm, a wall of glittering silver appears at Not-Anwen’s back.

_That’s it, keep her contained – don’t let her escape._

But the Shapeshifter doesn’t seem concerned with escape, instead running toward Anwen before leaping and tackling her to the ground. There’s a short tussle, limbs and fists colliding as Anwen tries clumsily to unseat her attacker. But then there’s a crack as Anwen’s skull is forced to the stone floor below and when her vision has cleared, Not-Anwen is smirking down at her, seated atop her chest and pinning her in place.

Anwen wonders briefly how she managed to find herself _again_ without her staff in the midst of a fight – but then it hadn’t seemed prudent to stalk Skyhold with her staff in hand (a sure-fire way to spread panic among her guests).

Those thoughts are quickly banished when Not-Anwen frames Anwen’s cheeks with her hands and pushes bolts of lightning into her skin, sensible reasoning forgotten as pain slices through all thoughts and feelings. Anwen’s body bucks, uncontrollable spasms from the electricity pulsing through her limbs, and her screams echo through the sparse confines of the small hall.

Anwen pushes against the pain, battling against the urgent jerking of her limbs, until she can lift her palm and _push_. The resulting wave of energy sends Not-Anwen flying, her body reaching a few feet into the air before slamming down again. Anwen just has enough time to roll over, scrambling to her feet and pulling on the magic inside her – magic that comes fast and wild without her staff to focus it.

Not-Anwen groans as she lies winded on the floor but Anwen gives her no quarter, raising both palms to unleash a flurry of lightning with a snarl.

The Shapeshifter screams, and for a moment her form seems to shimmer and shake – her appearance shifting with each jump of her body against the lightning.

But when the lightning disperses and Not-Anwen is able to pull her smoldering body to its feet, her appearance is impeccable once more, a perfect copy of Anwen… right down to her clothes. 

It is uncanny and – disturbing.

Anwen pushes out another lance of lightning, the magic tripping hot and bright from her fingertips, but Not-Anwen pushes out at the same time, filling the room with heat and light and energy as both women’s electricity merges into a writhing ball of spitting magic.

There’s a lull – a moment of bright silence as the two magical balls collide – and then there’s an explosion. A loud shattering that rattles the bones before Anwen is sent flying back, crashing into the wall behind her before falling to the ground only a few feet from Sera’s motionless body.

As she pulls herself to her feet, Anwen can feel the roiling anger begin to rise – just as it had when she’d escaped the cave. Although now it’s stronger. Because taking her captive and experimenting on her for days on end is one thing – but to hurt her friends, to cause chaos _in her own home_ , that is something entirely different – something utterly inexcusable.

There’d been a time when Anwen had promised the Shapeshifter mercy.

_Well fuck mercy_.

Anwen lets loose a snarl as she rushes forward, her whole body skittering with lightning as she pulls her magic forward, a swirling force of fire and electricity. She lets it pool and build, a small ball of power cupped between her hands, growing and pulsing as she summons all her anger and focus into her palms.

On the other side of the room, Not-Anwen is doing the same, the ground shaking and rumbling as she manipulates the very earth with her magic.

The women face off against each other – ready to unleash their combined powers in one final, devastating attack.

And then the door creaks open.

And Cullen steps in.

Anwen immediately pulls her magic back, yanking it from the cusp of attack and desperately reeling it back in, afraid that she might unleash her power and catch Cullen in the crossfire.

His sword is in one hand, shield in another, and he looks across the hall with a look of furious anger.

Until he catches sight of Anwen

Of _both_ Anwens

And then there is only confusion.

* * *

His heart had stopped when he’d heard the commotion – stopped and then pounded with resounding panic at the sound of a crash and the sharp clatter of lightening. And then he’d felt the magic. Even dulled as it was without the lyrium singing in his veins, he could still feel it – the sharp, urgent tug just beneath his skin, the shiver along the base of his spine.

His feet had come to a sprint before he’d even had the chance to think. If someone was using magic – magic _here_ in Skyhold – then it could only mean that the doppelgänger had been found. And if the doppelgänger had been found, Cullen wanted to be the one to drag her back to her cell (this time for good).

He’d lifted his shield in readiness as he’d approached the door and the clattering noise beyond, flexed his hold on the pommel of his sword. Ever the soldier; ever prepared. But he wasn’t prepared for what he’d find when he opened the heavy wooden door to the small hall, wasn’t prepared to face the ridiculous situation of finding himself face-to-face with _two_ Anwens.

_Oh Bugger_. 

His head scans the room – desperately trying to make sense of the scene before him – and takes in the scorch marks across the ornate rug at the centre of the room, the cracks and divots in the stone masonry, Sera’s slumped form in the far corner. There’d been a tough fight, and he’s glad he arrived when he did, but two familiar faces are staring at him expectantly and Cullen has _no idea_ what to do.

Anwen is standing right there – the real Anwen; _his_ Anwen – but he has no idea which one she is. Both women are breathing hard from exertion, their brilliant blue eyes narrowed in anger, their pale skin flushed and sweaty, haloed by a crown of dark curls now left in terrible disarray. Both postures are bent, both expressions twisted with anger and frustration – and both are so painfully similar that Cullen feels the breath snatched out of him, feels all certainty vanish at the sight of them.

“Cullen,” they both say in unison, stepping toward him with outstretched hands.

“Don’t!” he barks, raising his sword in warning, and both women flinch, hurt and confused by his reaction.

It is _painful_. Knowing that one of these women is the one person he loves above all others, knowing that he’s letting her down by not being able to tell her apart.

“It’s _me_ , Cullen – it’s your Anni,” one says imploringly, taking a tentative step forward.

“Don’t listen to her!” the other shouts, “she’s not me, _I’m_ me.”

“Stay back,” he orders, turning his sword between them, trying to keep both of them at a distance should he need to strike.

_Should he need to strike_

Oh Maker, will he really raise his sword to Anwen? Could he possibly strike her down knowing that he could be wrong? That he might inadvertently kill the woman he loves?

“Just… just stay back,” he repeats, uncertain as to how to continue, “you’re both going to… stay there. Until I figure… until I figure this out!”

“Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you were born in Honnleath, you have two sisters and a brother,” one says, words tripping from her lips as she desperately tries to prove her familiarity.

“Anyone could know that information,” the other snaps, rolling her eyes as if wholly unimpressed with this attempt to prove authenticity. And it’s such a familiar gesture, the roll of the eyes, the accompanying disdainful crinkle of the nose – it’s so very much like Anwen that Cullen is _certain_ that she must be the right one.

Well… _almost certain_.

Not-Anwen had also been good at appearing disdainful.

That morning after her deception had been revealed, she’d looked at him from her holding cell with such utter contempt. Sneering, _mocking_. How she’d delighted in teasing him, telling him that Anwen was dead, trying to seduce him. How pleased she’d seemed watching him squirm, watching his face twist and fall as she’d dripped each cruel word from her mouth. How smug she’d looked – even with her clothes dishevelled and her hair in disarray, her pale skin marred with the purpling bruise from when he’d knocked her out.

Oh how she must be enjoying this little spectacle now – enjoying watching him fidget with confusion.

Except – _wait_ —

A purpling bruise over pale skin – the wound he’d given her that she hadn’t been able to heal. Because the Shapeshifter _can’t_ heal.

The Shapeshifter can’t – _but Anwen can_.

He drops his sword and shield, and the clang reverberates through the narrow hall, startling both women. They stare at him as if he’s lost his mind, and perhaps he has, but he has an idea and it’s the only thing he can think of to finally figure out which woman is which.

He reaches down and pulls out the small, narrow knife tucked into his boot. It feels oddly insubstantial compared to the heft of his sword, though he’s seen enough rogues in his time to know how deadly such a seemingly small weapon can be in the right hands.

But he doesn’t need the knife for anything fancy – he just needs it to make a point.

He lifts the dagger, holds the blade against his abdomen. The weapon shudders a little in his grasp, fingers trembling as a thought circles round and round in his head – _this is the stupidest thing I have ever done_.

One of the Anwens realises what he’s planning a few seconds before the other, and her face immediately drops, panic coming quick and strong to her features as she takes an urgent step forward.

“No, Cullen, don’t!” she cries, voice trembling with fear.

But it’s too late – he’s already pushing the blade in.

His jacket is thick and it takes more pressure than he’d expected to push through. But then it suddenly gets easier – the blade jerking forward with a slick, wet noise, and then, _oh Maker_ , the pain comes. Sharp and insistent, a blinding pain that makes him gasp. With the pain comes blood, coating his fingers where they still hold tightly onto the blade, pooling in the lines of his palm.

Both Anwens scream.

Both Anwens step forward with faces contorted with fear, pale and wide and panicked. Both extend their hands, reaching toward him as if they can stop him.

But only one has the tell-tale blue of healing magic curling across her fingertips.

He pulls the dagger free and with the last vestiges of strength he throws it at the doppelgänger. There’s not much force behind the throw but his aim is good and the blade sticks snugly into the woman’s neck.

He watches with a grim satisfaction as her eyes fall blank, as her body teeters before toppling to the stone floor.

And then he’s falling too, blood seeping thick and fast through his puncture wound, his head feeling fuzzy as the pain spreads and dulls at the same time.

He hits the floor with a heavy thud, though he doesn’t feel the fall, the pain in his stomach overpowering all other feeling.

But then Anwen is by his side – the real Anwen, _his_ Anwen – and there are tears streaming down her face. As she leans over him the tears fall from her cheek and onto his, and he _does_ feel those, feels the hot droplets of water as they splash against his skin.

She’s talking – though it’s hard to pick out the sounds over the pounding of blood in his ears. But he can see her lips moving even if he can’t really hear the words. It looks an awful lot like, “you’re a fucking idiot.”

He feels warmth then – not the weird, uncomfortable warmth of the blood seeping into his shirt – but a soft, shifting warmth spreading from the inside-out. There’s an odd tickling sensation as his skin starts knitting together, a soothing brush as her magic caresses against him.

Anwen’s face softens as she channels her magic into his body, the panic and the fear vanishing into something that looks a lot like relief (tinged with only the slightest edge of anger). Her eyes are glassy with tears, sparkling with the light of her magic, and her whole body is highlighted in gentle brushes of blue.

_She’s beautiful_ , he thinks.

Beautiful and _real_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	10. Red, White and Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've totally lost confidence in my writing and it was hard to post this when I keep thinking of it as total trash.
> 
> But now we have some resolution after the last chapter's dramatic end, and then Anwen and Cullen get all cute and fluffy.

Cullen remembers red.

Blood oozing from his abdomen. Warm and thick, squelching between his fingers, nestling in the lines at his knuckles.

Cullen remembers white.

A hot flash of pain as his dagger pierced through skin. A sharp prick followed by a slow, building burn as the blade had pushed further and further through flesh.

Cullen remembers black.

His eyes drawn shut, too tired to hold open, the heavy hands of unconsciousness pulling him into darkness. He’d seen Anwen’s face then, in those last moments, and through the haze of his failing eyes, he’d almost thought her a vision, some spectre of the Fade come to greet him in his slumber. But her tears had fallen on his upturned face, charting hot courses down his cheeks, and then he’d known she wasn’t a dream – she was real, _she was here_ – here with him even as he was drifting off into the oblivion of sleep.

Maybe he should have been afraid, as the pain numbed into nothingness and the blood coursed from his open wound, but he wasn’t. With Anwen at his side, with the strange tingling of her magic dancing across his skin, he’d felt oddly calm.

As consciousness comes back to him, the colours turn into shapes – figures and forms and Anwen’s terrified face as she’d leant over him. There are sensations and thoughts and words that he hadn’t had the chance to tell her – an apology, mainly, for scaring her.

With consciousness comes movement – a small wriggle of his toes, a slow curl of his fingers into the thick blanket that seems to be wrapped tightly around him. He’s in his bed then; he can smell the sharpness of the breeze as it whistles through his broken roof, feel the homespun roughness of his simple bedsheets.

When he finally has the strength to open his eyes, he’s met with darkness, eyes still clouded with the lingering gloom of a heavy, dreamless sleep. After a few more blinks he can start to make out the interior of his room. The sky is dark above him and he finds the sight oddly disorientating; thick, slate-grey clouds making it impossible to tell just how late it is – whether it’s sun or stars being obscured by their heavy pall. The candle on his bedside table is lit, and the small, sputtering light fights valiantly to push the shadows from his room, weak fingers of light reaching out across rough, crumbling walls.

Someone’s sitting beside his bed; he can just make out the back of a dark-haired head and the bright flash of colour from a high-collared jacket.

“Anni?” he asks, voice dry and heavy with sleep.

The head turns and a moustachioed face frowns at him.

“I’m afraid not,” Dorian smirks, “it’s just little ol’ me.”

“Oh,” Cullen sighs.

“Yes well, try not to sound _too pleased_ to see me,” Dorian grouses, and though he rolls his eyes with exaggerated annoyance, Cullen doesn’t miss the quick flash of genuine hurt that sparks behind his eyes at Cullen’s reaction.

“Sorry, Dorian,” Cullen manages, “I didn’t mean— _thank you_. I’m glad that you’re here.”

Dorian hums in acknowledgement of Cullen’s apology and a small smile starts pulling at his mouth, though there’s still a hint of annoyance at the corners of his eyes. “She _was_ here, of course – but then Cassandra insisted that she go get some rest. Although knowing her, she probably just went to check in on Sera again.” He sighs dramatically, “you two are almost as stubborn as each other.”

Cullen smiles – touched to know that she’d been here with him, glad that Cassandra had chased her away, and hopeful that she’s managing to get some well-deserved rest.

“I don’t know why you look so pleased with yourself,” Dorian snaps, brows pulled low in disapproval, “you realise you’re a bloody idiot, right? Maker, Cullen… _stabbing yourself_.”

“It was the only way I could be sure which one was Anni.”

“I never realised you had such a flair for the dramatic. Are you sure you’re not from Tevinter?”

Cullen frowns at Dorian’s suggestion – reluctant to think of himself as being overly dramatic.

“You couldn’t just prick your finger, hmm? Maybe a little nick to your palm?”

“It needed to be severe enough that Anni would be _forced_ to use her healing magic.”

Dorian looks distinctly unimpressed with Cullen’s reasoning, although he luckily doesn’t press the matter. And Cullen’s glad that he doesn’t – because the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that he _had_ been pretty idiotic. But he’d been desperate, and afraid of being wrong, and he’d been keenly aware of the ticking of time, _of the urgency_. He’d needed to find the real Anwen and he’d needed to find her as soon as possible. Now that he thinks about it – it was rash and stupid and he’s sure to get a thorough bollocking from Anwen as soon as he sees her.

It’ll be worth it though – he can weather her anger as long as she’s safe and happy and at his side.

“Well let me take a look then?” Dorian suddenly asks, placing his book aside and tugging at Cullen’s bedsheets.

“Excuse me?” Cullen asks, still a little groggy from sleep and uncertain as to what exactly Dorian wants from him.

“Your wound,” Dorian says with exaggerated slowness, “let me take a look at it.”

Cullen pushes the sheets back and lifts his shirt, holding the fabric back so that Dorian can take a good look at the marred skin across his abdomen. It’s not a pretty sight – skin puckered and red, silver starburst marking the point where the blade had slipped in. Cullen can’t help but cringe a little at the sight of it; it looks angry at him.

“Ugh,” Dorian groans with a grimace, “it’s not Anwen’s finest work.”

There’s a beat of silence as they both take in the sorry state of Cullen’s stomach.

“But then you did insist that she leave you alone and concentrate her healing on Sera.”

Cullen’s head jolts with surprise. “I did? I said that?... I… I don’t remember that.”

“Yes, well you weren’t really in your right mind at the time – with all that blood loss. Although I’m not sure you were in your right mind before that. Otherwise you never would have stabbed yourself in the first place!”

Cullen is surprised at the sharpness in Dorian’s tone, surprised too at Dorian's unwillingness to just let it go.

He only now realises just how _angry_ Dorian is – why he keeps needling and prodding while glaring at him with a disapproving scowl. He’d only really been thinking of Anwen when he’d taken up his dagger – worrying solely about determining which Anwen was which. He hadn’t thought about how his actions would endanger his own life, hadn’t thought about how his actions would upset his friends.

It suddenly occurs to him that Dorian has been _worried_ about him.

And Cullen really is a bloody idiot.

Cullen grabs Dorian’s hand from where it’s fussing over the wound, elegant fingers prodding at puckered skin, and gives it a companionable squeeze. “I’m sorry, Dorian,” Cullen says, holding Dorian’s eyes so his friend can see the sincerity there. “I’m sorry for being an idiot. I’m sorry for making you worry. And I promise I won’t do anything stupid again.”

Dorian gives him an unimpressed glare.

“ _Fine_ – I _might_ do something stupid again. But I promise I’ll be suitably repentant every time.”

Dorian chuckles, and this time when he smiles, none of the tension and annoyance from earlier seems to be lingering anymore. 

“You are forgiven,” Dorian says with an indulgent, though somewhat patronising smile, “you handsome idiot.”

* * *

Anwen had meant to rest – really she had.

But after Cullen had fallen sound asleep, and after she’d been sure to check in on Sera, she’d found it impossible to just… switch off. Her mind is buzzing too much. Every time she closes her eyes, she can see everything playing through her mind again and again and again. She sees Sera hit the floor, sees her own sneering face as her doppelganger unleashes another spell. Sees Cullen’s face turning gradually whiter as blood pools on the stone floor beneath them.

And so she doesn’t close her eyes, instead keeping the images at bay by staring at the canopy above her bed with an unwavering intensity. She’s staring so intensely that soon the images start to shift and sway, the floral pattern coming alive under the force of her scrutiny, flowers budding and blooming and dying all before her eyes.  

With a sigh she pulls her body upright, swinging her legs out of bed until her toes dig into the soft pile of her patterned rug. She feels like she’s going insane, images and sensations and thoughts swirling uncontrollably behind her eyes. She supposes she’s just exhausted – exhausted but frustratingly incapable of sleep. She starts to pace, feet scuffing against her rug as she moves, muttering to herself as she remains completely at a loss for what to do.

She could read, she supposes, though she’s not sure what pleasure she’ll get from it in her current agitated state. Part of her desperately wants to go back and check on Cullen – though she knows that Dorian will just shoo her away the moment she steps back in his room. As she paces across her quarters she catches sight of the pile of reports on her desk and… well, they’re hardly the most exciting thing in the world but working through the pile of paperwork does at least seem monotonous enough to keep her mind occupied for a time.

She sits down at her desk, quickly thumbs through the stack of papers to try and estimate how many reports are there, before picking the first report from the top of the pile and starting to read.

Surprisingly, it’s exactly what she needs.

Anwen normally finds reports excruciatingly dull – reading them and answering them – but she’s surprisingly grateful for the mindless task right now. She reads, she answers, she moves onto the next one. 

When the reports are done, she starts on her correspondence.

There’s a letter to her sister in Wycome, consisting almost entirely of lies – skipping over the darker details of life in the Inquisition in favour of extolling their victories. There’s a more honest letter to a friend in Starkhaven, as well as shorter missives to mage friends she’d known in the Tantervale Circle before it fell, now in hiding.

By the time Cassandra walks in, looking softer than usual in a pair of loose linen trousers and a white tunic, Anwen is on the last of her letters. It’s short but… _difficult_ , her brows knit tight as she tries to think of the right words. There’s no easy way to tell a family that their beloved is dead; no easy way to express just how sorry she is. It’s especially hard because the death had been so senseless – not killed in heroic battle but slaughtered by Not-Anwen as she’d escaped her cell. Normally Anwen lets Cullen or one of his Captains write these sorts of letters – but it seems different this time; these men had been killed by someone wearing _her own_ _face_ and it seems only right that _she_ should be the one to write the letter.

“It’s late, you should be asleep,” Cassandra says without preamble.

“I was doing reports,” Anwen replies, her quill never once stopping as she writes, “and now I’m writing letters.”

“Can’t they wait until morning?” Cassandra asks with an impatient tap of her toes against the floor. 

Anwen shrugs, still not looking up. “Probably.”

Cassandra lets out a heavy sigh and it’s only then that Anwen stops. She realises she’s being unnecessarily surly – and she’s always taken particular care not to lose her temper in front of Cassandra. She puts her quill down, leaning back in her chair so she can look up at Cassandra. “I’m sorry – I don’t mean to be—I’m just _tired_.”

“That’s why I said you should go to sleep.”

“I _can’t_ sleep,” she says, again with a little more bite than intended. Cassandra gives her a pointed glare and she ducks her head apologetically. “Sorry – is there something you needed me for?”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Cassandra says, then adds, “and I thought you might be interested to know…”

She pauses, purses her lips in thought. Anwen looks at her expectantly. 

“The Orlesian authorities have tried the Venatori that we captured at Maida Vallee. They were found guilty and… put to death.”

_Huh_.

Anwen can’t help but picture the tall man then – his sneering face and gleaming eyes. He’d always seemed so smug, so unshakeably certain in his own superiority and the surety of his success. It’s hard to imagine that he’s just… gone. Just like that. 

“Good,” Anwen says, trying to sound impassive.

Cassandra looks at her searchingly, curiosity evident in her expression. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“When we found you in that basement – you had the Venatori beaten. Why didn’t you kill them yourself? Why did you insist on handing them to the Orlesians?”

It’s a typically straightforward question from Cassandra – not intending to be nosey, of course, but just genuinely curious as to why Anwen had done what she’d done. A lot of people had seemed surprised when Anwen had insisted on handing the Venatori to the Orlesians, though no one had said anything. Of course it would be Cassandra who would eventually ask.

“It didn’t seem fair,” said Anwen, “to kill them when they’d already lost.”

“You must have known the Orlesian authorities would execute them – it was only a temporary reprise.”

“You think I should have just killed them?” Anwen snaps.

Cassandra raises a palm placatingly. “Not necessarily but… you’ve killed Venatori before. I was wondering what made these ones different.”

Anwen sighs, shrugs. “I suppose they’re not but I—”

She falls silent, shuffles in her seat uncomfortably, before rising from her chair and walking across her room, looking a little uncertain a moment before deciding to perch on the end of her bed. Cassandra simply watches, her expression curious as she follows Anwen’s pacing but making no attempt to hound her for an answer.

Anwen’s head is bowed, eyes intent on her slippers – a thread has come loose, and she notices that a bead is missing – until she lifts her eyes to meet Cassandra’s. There’s a pause before Anwen finally continues. “When I escaped from that cave, the cave where they’d been holding me captive, I… killed… I killed _a lot_ of Venatori.”

Cassandra nods. “All right.”

“And it’s not just that I killed them… I… I _enjoyed it_. I was angry – really, _really_ angry – and I let my magic just… _burn_. I didn’t just want them to die, I wanted them to feel every slow, excruciating moment of their deaths. I’ve never cast like that before. I was… reckless. I… I wasn’t in control, Cassandra.”

Cassandra’s face is infuriatingly blank as Anwen talks and Anwen finds that she can’t bear it – she’d rather she looked furious or disappointed or afraid even. At least then she’d know what Cassandra was thinking.

“And then again in that basement – when I saw the smug bastard who’d been in charge of it all, I just lost my temper. All I wanted was to see him torn limb from limb, to see my magic rip him apart from the inside out.” Anwen grimaces, lip curled disdainfully at her own imagery. “So that’s why I stopped – I thought that… if I killed him, if I let my magic destroy him… I don’t know… I felt like that would be crossing some sort of line…”

Cassandra is quiet for a time, watching Anwen with interest. It makes Anwen uncomfortable, her skin itching under Cassandra’s gaze.

“I understand,” Cassandra finally says. “They tortured you and you were angry. I too have been known to lose my temper… on occasion.”

A startled laugh escapes Anwen’s lips – partly at Cassandra’s astonishing understatement but also because, well, she’d expected Cassandra’s reaction to be… bigger, louder somehow. She thought there’d be disapproval, a disgusted noise, _anything_. Instead Cassandra seems perfectly contented with Anwen’s explanation.

“So you’re not… angry with me? Or… disappointed?” 

Cassandra looks surprised then – her eyes widening for a moment before narrowing, mouth quirking sharply. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“I killed people! In really unpleasant ways!”

Cassandra shrugs. “I’ve killed people too. And I’m not sure my sword is any more pleasant than your magic.” Cassandra turns to face Anwen more fully, holding her gaze as she continues. “If I thought you were going to lose yourself to your magic, if I thought you were going to resort to blood magic or become an abomination, I would not hesitate in striking you down. As it is, I trust you to keep your magic in check.”

“Even now? After everything I just told you?”

“Even now.”

Anwen finds Cassandra’s words oddly comforting – even if she did just threaten to kill her. She supposes she doesn’t expect anything different.

“I didn’t expect you to be so… forgiving. I thought you’d be angry. I thought you’d be unnerved by the thought of a mage losing her temper.”

“Yes, I am surprised also,” Cassandra admits with a slow nod of her head, stepping forward until she’s joined Anwen at the foot of her bed. “There was a time when I found it hard to trust mages. But being with the Inquisition has changed me; as it has you. You’re more patient than you once were, more thoughtful. Even if you lose your temper, I trust you have the wisdom to control it.”

Anwen can feel a little dampness at the corner of her eyes, and she gives a sharp sniff before pulling Cassandra into a tight embrace, arms curling around her shoulders to pull her tight and close.

_Thank the Maker for friends like Cassandra._

There’s a sudden knock at her door and Anwen startles, still a little on the edge, exhaustion adding a sharp edge to the noise. Cassandra chuckles as she extricates herself from Anwen’s fierce hug, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before calling out and bidding whomever waits at the door entrance. Anwen straightens her blouse as a small, meek-looking messenger hurries up the stairs to her room, hoping she looks at least somewhat presentable and Inquisitorial.

“Dorian sent me,” the messenger explains once he’s reached the top of the stairs, “Cullen is awake.”

Anwen immediately jumps to her feet, instinctually stepping forward to follow the messenger. But then she remembers that Cassandra is still sitting beside her.

“Sorry, Cassandra, do you mind if —? M-may I—?”

Cassandra doesn’t seem annoyed by the interruption, instead smiling indulgently at Anwen’s nervous stuttering – too much of a romantic to try and come between Anwen and a now conscious Cullen.

“Go,” she says with a laugh and a nod of her head. “Tell Cullen I say _hello_ – and promise me you’ll get some rest _soon_!”

Anwen waves and stammers out apologies as she rushes down the stairs from her quarters, feeling guilty about abandoning her friend so unceremoniously but too eager to see Cullen to attempt a proper goodbye. She makes her way quickly through Skyhold, practically jogging as she pads across the Great Hall to Solas’s rotunda and the battlements beyond. The fortress is quiet, the hour too late for people to be congregating. A few guards are eating in the Great Hall, just off their patrol shifts, and they nod at her as she passes (though no one, thankfully, tries to intercept her).

When she reaches Cullen’s tower she hurries up the ladder, exhausted limbs struggling somewhat with the rungs as she climbs as fast as she can manage. She sees Dorian first, her eyes inevitably drawn toward the bright colour of his jacket, but then Cullen – propped upright in bed, face wan but _smiling_.

“You’re awake,” she says as she approaches, her own smile turning bright and radiant at the sight of him.

“I am,” he says.

She sits herself down on the side of his bed, lifts one hand to run her fingers along his arm that’s nearest to her. It’s not meant to be a seductive gesture – just trying to reassure herself that he’s here and he’s warm and most definitely alive.

“Thank you so much, Dorian, for looking after him,” she says.

“Yes, well, I’m glad _someone_ around her appreciates me,” he responds (and Anwen doesn’t really understand why Cullen rolls his eyes so aggressively in response). “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some beauty sleep – I don’t just _naturally_ look this ravishing.” 

“Scurrilous lies,” Anwen responds with a smile and Dorian rewards her for the compliment with a quick peck to the forehead.

She watches as Dorian makes his way unsteadily down the ladder – like her, too tired to navigate the ladder elegantly - but once she’s heard the door to Cullen’s tower close, she turns to look at Cullen. He's still frighteningly pale, his usually pristine hair in a frenzied mess of curls that makes him look strangely young and vulnerable.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Cullen,” she says, pulling her face into a tight frown in an effort to convey the depths of her disapproval.

Cullen ducks his head to escape from her glare, a flush of pink burning up the sides of his neck. “Yes – Dorian has expressed a similar sentiment.”

Her face falls into something a little softer, and while she’s trying to keep her emotions in check, trying to keep images of his blue-tinged skin and his blood-smeared tunic out of her head, she can’t help the slight quiver at the corners of her mouth. “You _scared_ me.”

He lifts his face to hers, eyes slanted in apology. “I know.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

What remains of her anger seems to dim somewhat, her lips curling into the most tentative of smiles as she considers him. “It _was_ kind of clever, though.”

He chuckles at the admission. “Thanks.”

For a moment he looks weirdly proud, smug even, and Anwen gives him another hard look, _warning_. “But if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll stab you myself.”

The smugness flees, though a small, amused smile remains. “Understood.”

“I’m only small but I’ve got a lot of rage – I could do a fair bit of damage.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he says with a chuckle, reaching out to tug at her arm and pull her in closer.

She shifts along his bed, lifting her legs onto the bed and settling against his side, curling into his chest so that her head rests just below his chin. For a long moment they just lie there together, Cullen’s chest rising and falling, Anwen feeling truly relaxed for the first time in days as she _feels_ as much as hears his steady breathing.

The images from before are gone – no Sera writhing in pain, no doppelgänger charging to attack, no Cullen bleeding out in her arms. All she can see is her hand resting atop Cullen’s chest, fingers slipping under the placket of his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his skin.

“I love you,” she says a little drowsily, her body _finally_ deciding to take Cassandra’s advice and get some rest.

As her eyes fade to black and the Fade comes to welcome her, she hear Cullen’s voice, weak but close. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	11. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anwen show each other just how much they've missed each other.
> 
> The tags promised eventual smuttiness and we have now reached that eventuality. I hope it was worth the wait (eight months since my last update?! Sorry!!) - I tried to keep it classy.

Anwen’s feet carry her quickly up the stairs to the battlements, taking the steps two at a time as she tries to reach her destination as quickly as possible. She doesn’t even slow her pace to admire the view, as she usually does when walking along Skyhold's parapets. Beside her, the Frostbacks are draped fetchingly in the warm gold of the early evening sun, snow-capped peaks daubed in dusty pinks and purples as they reach into the sky. But she doesn’t notice any of this, not the mountains, nor the puffs of violet clouds, nor the snow glittering in the sun like beaded silk - her eyes are too fixated on the door ahead of her.

She gives the door a knock but doesn’t wait for an answer, barrelling into Cullen’s office with an impatient frisson of excitement.

He's sitting behind his desk, back hunched awkwardly as his hands sort through an unwieldy stack of paperwork. His head jerks up at the sounds of the door opening, a scowl on his face and his mouth opening as if to shout some reprimand at whichever messenger was foolish enough to barge in while he's working. But then he sees her, and his mouth splits into a goofy grin instead. “You’re back!” he cries in greeting, letting a stack of papers drop from his hands as she steps nearer.

His desk is covered in missives, and from the wrinkles in his shirt and the disarray of his usually slicked back curls, she knows he's been working for far too long. “You’re _supposed_ to be _resting_ ,” she snaps, scowling at him as she approaches.

He still smiles, his shoulders lifting in a shrug that's too aggressively casual to be genuine, but Anwen doesn't miss the momentary flash of guilt behind his eyes. “I _am_ resting.”

She stands on the other side of his desk with her hands on her hips, leaning forward in what is an impressively close approximation of looming given her stature. “No you’re not; you’re working.”

“Yes but I’m _sitting down_ while I work.”

There’s a pause as she glares at him disapprovingly, huffing through her nose, then her frown cracks into a reluctant smile as she shakes her head. “You’re full of shit, Cullen.”

His smile quirks into a smirk, his eyelashes fluttering in feigned innocence, and though she’s trying very hard to glare at him with an appropriate level of surliness, she feels a traitorous rumble of laughter bubbling up. From his smug expression he clearly knows he's won this little stand-off but he adds a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows just to push her over the edge. It's enough to break her, her stern facade crumpling away as snorts of laughter break through. He follows her lead, chuckling softly in return as he gazes at her unguarded expression with open, unabashed affection.

“I missed you,” he says as he watches her laugh, words quiet but forceful with his sincerity.

“Don’t change the subject,” she responds with an attempt at sharpness, though her laughter drains the words of their scorn. “I’m trying to be mad at you for disobeying a direct order from her mighty Inquisitorialness. I _told you to rest_.” She manages to get her laughter in check long enough to force out a glare.

He just glares in return. “That was _weeks_ ago.” He stands from his chair, walking slowly around to her side of the desk so that he can take her hands, entwining her fingers with his and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “And, I promise, I _have_ been resting.”

She squeezes back. “Good.”

There's a moment of stillness as she studies their enjoined hands, his – large and scarred – easily dwarfing hers. When she looks up he's already looking at her, his warm, golden eyes immediately locking onto hers. Holding his gaze, she's struck with the realisation that they have been apart for far, _far_ too long.

“Maker… has it really been weeks?” she sighs, breaking their eye-contact to look sheepishly at her feet. “Time flies when you’re fighting a shit-tonne of demons, I suppose.”

He shifts to perch on the edge of his desk, legs wide enough that he can pull her close, bringing her hips flush with his. “Yes – it really has been weeks.” He places her hands on his shoulders, lets his own slide gently along her arms before falling and coming to rest on her waist. “How was the Emprise du Lion?”

She glares at him with pinched brows.“Cold. Wet” Her nose wrinkles. “And did I mention the demons?”

He chuckles, and she would be offended by his apparent lack of sympathy for her demon-y plight except there's so much _fondness_ in the sound. “Yes”

“There was a shit-tonne”

“So I gather.”

They're standing so close together it's easy for Anwen to drop her head until her forehead rests against his chest. She can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath and it's oddly comforting, _steadying_. She always needs this when she gets back to Skyhold – after rifts and Red Templars and too much spilt blood and too little sleep – needs to feel grounded. And Cullen has always done that for her. Even from those early days in Haven when she was just a strange mage with too many opinions, an extensive vocabulary of expletives, and the remarkable ability to survive the unsurvivable.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into the space between them, so quiet she's not sure he'll hear it.

She feels him press a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. “I missed you too.”

His words sound so soft, so heavy with longing, that Anwen's head snaps up with a bubble of guilt. “I didn’t want to leave, you know, so soon after your injury-”

“I know,” he cuts in in an ill-fated attempt to stop her guilt-fuelled babbling.

“-but I’ve been out of action for so long and there’s so much that needed my attention-”

“ _I know_ ,” he repeats, a little louder, releasing his hold on her so that his hands can run up and down her arms in what is probably meant to be a comforting gesture. “I understand, Anni... I... I know. You’re her _mighty Inquisitorialness.”_ He puts undue stress on the title to mock her for her earlier choice in words (and, Maker, she really has been spending too much time with Sera). “I can’t keep you all to myself. No matter how badly I want to. You don’t have to feel guilty about that.” He leans back to look at her mournfully, then smiles before adding a little brighter, “and besides – I had Dorian looking after me.”

A small frown creases between her brows. “Dorian is a piss-poor healer.”

“Haven’t you heard? Dorian is excellent at everything; I’m pretty sure he’s told me that himself.”

She laughs, if only a little, but it's enough to banish the buzzing urgency of her guilt, pushing it away until only a tiny niggle of regret lurks at the back of her mind.

“Can I see?” she asks as she disentangles herself from his arms and steps back, hands reaching for where his shirt is tucked into his trousers.

“Excuse me?” he says with a surprised little squeak, a delightfully endearing blush coming to his cheeks.

“Your _wound_ ,” she says with a knowing smirk. “Can I see your wound?”

“Ah – of course,” he says, trying to look composed but utterly failing, the blush in his cheeks stubbornly staying put. He tugs his shirt loose and holds it up to reveal the knotted scar low on his stomach. At first glance the wound certainly looks better; the red completely gone, only a faint silvery starburst where the dagger pierced through his skin.

She kneels down to get a better look, grimacing at the puckered and pinched edges of his scar. Her guilt comes roaring back – she’s _better than this_. Better than this jagged line of raised flesh, better than haphazardly knit-together skin. It was only a _small_ stab wound; she should have been able to heal it easily. There shouldn’t even _be_ a scar. But she’d been so drained of mana, so scared and shaking as Cullen's skin had turned pale and the front of her trousers had become warm with his blood.

“It’s… _better,”_ she sighs, “I suppose.” She drags her fingers over the raised line of scar tissue, frowning intensely as if she can maybe _scare_ the skin into healing. Then her fingers start to wander, circling, soothing. Without really thinking, she leans her head forward, hesitates for only a moment, before pressing her lips against the scar.

_A kiss to make it better_ , that’s what her nanny used to say to her as a child – whenever she’d fallen and scraped her knee, or bashed her elbow. A kiss to make it better. Although she’s not sure it works on near-fatal stab wounds.

She feels Cullen stiffen, hears the sudden intake of breath. When she glances up through her eyelashes, she sees him staring at her with surprise but also a wide-eyed wonder. She kisses the scar again, a little higher this time, and again, higher once more, rising from her knees as she peppers tiny kisses up to his ribcage.

He lets go of his shirt so that he can reach for her, one hand splayed across her back to pull her closer while the other hand buries itself in her hair, canting her head back so that he can bend down to capture her lips in a kiss. There's a neediness to the way his mouth presses so forcefully against her own, something hungry and eager – edged with the sorrow of too many nights spent alone. She responds in kind, leaning eagerly into the kiss, her back arched so her breasts press against his chest. She nips at his bottom lip, then soothes with a quick swipe of her tongue before parting her lips and letting him deepen the kiss.

She's surprised when he suddenly moves, flipping their positions so that she's the one with her bum pressed against the edge of the desk. He's still pressing forward against her, as if trying to banish all the space between their bodies, and while she loves the feel of him against her – strong and steady – it's beginning to get a little painful the way the edge of the desk digs into her. She wriggles a little as she tries to lift herself onto the desk, smiling against Cullen's lips when he drops his hands to her bum and lifts her easily into place.

“I missed you,” she says again, words gasped breathily against his lips.

“I missed you too,” he replies without a beat.

He frowns at her when she breaks the kiss, confusion mixed with irritation at the sudden change. But then his expression shifts into something intrigued when he sees the crooked grin on her face, the heat in her hooded eyes as she leans forward. Her hands curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, bringing her lips to his ear as she whispers, “ _show me how much you missed me_.”

There's a brief pause as he considers, looking at her, then his desk, then back at her, eyes falling from her eyes to her mouth to the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tries to catch her breath.

Then he reaches out and sweeps everything from the top of his desk – papers flying and a stack of books tumbling, a long forgotten teacup smashing to the floor. It's such an unexpected move, so distinctly un-Cullen-like that Anwen gasps in surprise. That gasp soon turns into a groan as he pushes her further along his desk, clambering up to join her and –

_Fuck._

There's just _so much_ of him. As Cullen settles above her, his arms braced on either side of her head to take his weight, Anwen can't help but marvel at the size of him. Tall and broad, he eclipses everything, his office disappearing from notice because all she can see and feel is _him_.

“Is this... all right?” he asks, suddenly shy, his face searching hers for any sign that he's overstepped with his rather dramatic display of passion.

She smiles, shakes her head fondly. “Just shut up and fucking kiss me,” she says, leaning up from the desk until her mouth slants against his. Her words are apparently enough to assuage his concerns and she can feel him smiling against her lips, pressing forward until her head is resting back against the hard, rough wood of his desk.

This kiss is just as hungry as the last, a messy tangle of lips and tongue and teeth, and it's almost too much, almost making her light-headed. But then Cullen breaks the kiss to press his lips against her jawline, then again against her neck, then down and down until he's pulling the front of her dress down with his teeth and pressing open-mouthed kisses to her breasts. She'd hoped to catch her breath when he broke the kiss – but now each press of his lips and swipe of his tongue against her skin is leaving her gasping and panting, her body arching off the desk as she pushes herself into his touch.

He shifts a little so he can brace his weight with only one arm, then brings the other down so that his hand can slide slowly up her thigh, rucking her skirt up as he moves. He doesn't stop when he reaches the top of her leg, hand dipping into her smalls to press one, long finger inside of her.

She swears – loudly and filthily – her hips rising from the table to meet the hard press of his hand. She can feel him smiling as he kisses the skin between her breasts. _Smug_ _bastard_.

He waits a moment for her to settle before he starts to move his finger inside of her, each small movement enough to bring a litany of moans and gasps to her lips. When he adds another finger, she swears again, and her hands, which had been happily exploring the expanse of his chest, suddenly clasp into his shirt, grasping so tight she fears she might rip the fabric.

Anwen can feel a building heat, coiling and pulsing in rhythm with every stroke of Cullen's fingers, and when he strokes his thumb at _just_ the right spot – something shatters. Her body snaps taut, back bending like a bow, body lifting from the table and head falling back with a heavy thud against the wood.

“Fuck,” she manages between desperate gulps of air, “that was – I mean. Fuck.” She bites her lip before she can say anything else stupid and incoherent, and from the gentle chuckling she can feel against her neck, Cullen is clearly amused by her struggle for words. Cullen has always had this way of leaving her speechless.

The fingers that had mere moments ago been curled inside of her now pull feverishly at the laces of Cullen's trousers, and she's glad that he's struggling with only one hand because it gives her a little more time to catch her breath. She's feeling a little giddy, body still sparking with pleasure, so overwhelmed by sensations and heat and the feel of Cullen's weight above her – _finally_ , after so many months of stolen kisses and hungry glances and responsibilities keeping them apart.

With the laces undone, he pushes haphazardly at his trousers, only bothering to pull them down as far as necessary. Then his hand is back between her thighs, though this time it's to pull her smalls aside, the fabric chafing a little as it's stretched.

There's no preamble, no teasing; just a shift of his hips as he slides inside her with a broken groan.

Cullen pauses, lips murmuring against her jaw – endearments perhaps, or a prayer – felt rather than heard. But it's only a moment, a few seconds of stillness before his mouth crushes against hers in another frenzied, clumsy kiss, and his hips start moving.

While their courtship had been slow and tender, this first joining is anything but. His thrusts are hard, the pace fast and a little erratic – frustrations and longing and emotions hammering out with every snap of his hips against hers. Anwen tries to roll her hips to meet him but his rhythm is too unsteady, too unpredictable, so instead she just curls her legs around him, holding him close as she lets her body shake and shift with his movements.

She gasps and mewls into his mouth, sounds swallowed by open-mouthed kisses just as frantic and clumsy as the pounding of Cullen's hips. The sensations are too sharp, too fraught – and there's certainly far too many layers of clothing between them – but Anwen can feel a delightful throb nonetheless, eddies of pleasure that swell and ebb every time Cullen moves within her. Her grip tightens as the sensations rise, her hands clutching vicelike at the collar of his shirt while her legs encircle his hips, heels digging into his backside in encouragement.

Cullen tenses a moment, their kiss broken as he takes a raggedy breath and _roars,_ and then his whole body is shaking in a shuddering wave. His hips move in fits and starts, shallow little thrusts that are just enough to push Anwen to her own release. Her cry follows his, slightly softer but no less vulgar, and surely everyone in Skyhold must now know what the noble Inquisitor has been up to with her Commander in the meagre privacy of Cullen's office.

Not that she cares. Anwen has forgotten about the rest of Skyhold, about guard rotations or noble engagements or the pile of reports waiting on her desk. All she can feel is Cullen, the press of him against the cradle of her hips, the heat of his skin as a callused palm strokes against her thigh, the soft brush of his lips as he whispers _I love you_ against her temple.

All she can feel is Cullen.

* * *

 Cullen aches.

His forearm is digging into the rough wood of his desk, his whole weight supported on one arm so that his other hand can stroke tenderly against Anwen's skin. His thighs burn, muscles tired from maintaining such a punishing, stuttering pace with his hips. And the little clicking sound from his knees every time he shifts his legs is thoroughly disconcerting.

It turns out that desk sex is incredibly uncomfortable.

But his nerve-endings are still sparking with pleasure, a warm tingle spreading beneath his skin, and Anwen is below him, face pink and flushed and more beautiful than he's ever seen it. Her eyes are scrunched shut, overwhelmed and overwrought, and her chest rises and falls with hurried little breaths, and Cullen can't do anything except stare at her – utterly astounded that she's here, with him, _beneath him_ , after so many months of longing for her.

“Cullen?” she asks, voice soft and breathy.

He nuzzles his nose against her neck, pressing soft kisses at the pulse point below her ear. _Hmmm?_

“Can you um… _move_?”

His head jerks up at the sharp tone in Anwen's voice and it's only then that he realises her eyes are scrunched in _pain_ , not the lingering glow of passion. The forearm that's braced against the desk is trapping her hair, and in the aftermath of his own pleasure, he'd stopped carefully holding his weight off her and is now crushing her under his considerable bulk.

“Oh, Maker, sorry!” he cries as he immediately starts shifting, cringing when her hair gets snagged in the button of his shirt-sleeve. She swears colourfully, jerking away from the pain, but then her forehead bangs into his chin and she swears even louder. There's a litany of curses and pained hisses as the pair of them attempt to extricate themselves – too many elbows and knees and not enough space. When they're finally sitting next to each other at the edge of his desk, Cullen can't help but look at her a little sheepishly.

“I'm, ugh, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles.

“Don't be,” she replies with a soft smile, though he can't help but notice that she's rubbing delicately at her forehead.

He shrugs helplessly. “This…” he gestures at the desk, “isn’t exactly how I imagined our first time.”

To his great relief (and mild surprise) she apparently finds his comment amusing, a lopsided smirk pulling at her lips as she lifts one brow in question. “Oh yes? And – _pray tell me_ – how many times exactly _have_ you imagined our first time?”

He blushes, only now realising what his words implied, but it's impossible to feel embarrassed for long when she looks so delighted. He smirks back at her. “More times than I should admit.”

She throws her head back as she laughs, a light and twittering thing, and it brings him such joy to see her so open and unguarded, a blotchy flush climbing up the bare column of her neck, curls in disarray.

When her laughter has subsided she scooches closer to him along the desk, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against his jaw before murmuring against his skin, “and… all these times that you’ve… imagined us together – what exactly _was_ it like?”

His blush darkens. “Well – I must admit – taking you here on this desk has crossed my mind… a fair few times.” She laughs again, huskier and warm, puffing against his skin. “Also… up against the stacks in the library or… on the War Table.”

“The _War Table_? Really?!”

“It has crossed my mind… once or twice?”

She looks at him wide-eyed, clutching her hands to her chest in exaggerated shock. “In front of Josephine and Leliana?!” Then there's a smile and a wink. “That’s fucking kinky.”

He gives her a withering glare – _don’t be ridiculous_ – but she only laughs harder.

“But, honestly…” he leans a little closer to tuck one unruly curl behind her ear. The teasing has gone from his expression - no smirk, no eye-rolls – just the kind of naked earnestness that usually leaves Anwen squirming uncomfortably. But this time she doesn't duck away or avert her eyes, she's looking at him closely, her eyes never once leaving his. “I wanted our first time to be _special_. I thought there’d be – I don’t know – roses and candles and… well, at the very least a _bed_.”

Her smile is gentle at first as she nods thoughtfully. But then it curls into something almost wolfish as she murmurs, “well… if I’m not mistaken… I do believe we have a bed… rather close at hand.” She looks up pointedly and nods her head towards Cullen’s bedroom above his office. When she looks back at him her wolfish smile is accompanied with a heated gaze, dropping for a moment to the golden skin exposed by his gaping shirt before returning to his eyes. She presses a quick kiss to his lips – too quick – a promise rather than a farewell, and when she leans away and hops off the edge of his desk, he can't help the embarrassing little whimper he makes at the loss.

She saunters toward the ladder with an exaggerated roll of her hips, pulling at the laces at the side of her dress. By the time she’s reached the bottom of the ladder, the dress is loose enough that she can shrug out of it, the fabric billowing for a moment before settling in a heap of blue silk at her feet. The simple, white shift she wears underneath leaves little to the imagination, the flickering light of the wall sconces behind her enough to shine through the thin fabric and illuminate soft curves beneath. She looks at him over her shoulder, her wolfish grin curving into something softer, almost coy, before she starts to climb the ladder to the bedroom above.

For a moment he’s just staring dumbfounded – transfixed by the sight of her, the thin shift revealing far too much of lean limbs as she climbs the ladder. But then she calls “coming?” over her shoulder as she disappears from view and Cullen lunges clumsily forward to catch up with her. He hastily divests himself of his clothes as he crosses his office, his shirt flung into a corner while his trousers join Anwen’s dress at the bottom of the ladder. He hurries up the ladder – trying to ignore how often his feet stumble in his enthusiasm.

At the top of the ladder he finds Anwen’s abandoned shift, and when he looks into his room to see her standing there dressed only in her underwear, he feels his feet falter on the rungs. She's wearing a matching set – naturally – brassiere and knickers in a pale mint green, edged with impossibly delicate lace and festooned liberally in tiny bows. By their ostentatiousness they’re clearly Orlesian, unlike anything he's ever seen and undoubtedly mind-blowingly expensive, but they seem so very _Anwen_ that he can't help but smile.

The room is dark, the wall sconces unlit, and the only light comes from the shafts of moonlight that spill through the broken roof above, gilding her body with shards of silver. She looks beautiful. And ethereal. And so unwordly in her seeming perfection that Cullen can scarce believe that she’s real.

But she’s also looking a little awkward, fidgeting under his scrutiny, weight shifting from foot to foot.

“Maybe it’s not exactly how you imagined it,” she says, her voice quiet with surprising shyness considering the boldness she'd shown in his office, “no roses,” she adds with a shrug, “but there is _a_ candle–” She clicks her fingers and the lone candle on his bedside table lights in a puff of magical flame, “and there’s a bed.”

“It’s perfect,” he says quickly as he finally climbs fully into the room. He steps forward, raising his hands to frame her face, hoping to quell her restless shifting. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

It works; she stills, and she cranes her head up to look at him with the kind of naked, unabashed affection that he knows she saves only for him.

And then she tips forward onto her tip-toes – and she kisses him.

The kisses in his office had been heady and urgent, too hot and too frantic, but this kiss – _this kiss._ Each brush of her lips is tentative, achingly tender, but then her lips part with a sigh and he wastes no time in deepening the kiss, tongue darting forward to taste her full bottom lip, not wanting to ruin the slow, languorous mood but desperate for more. More of her, more of this.

Cullen is already hard again.

At first both of her hands had been buried in his blonde curls, pulling him down so she could more easily reach his lips, but now one starts to wander, lightly calloused fingers sliding down his neck and along his collarbone before sliding further down. Finally the hand comes to rest against his abdomen, fingertips playing gently against the lines of muscle there. His hands move to her back, one between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, while the other dips daringly low, brushing just above the round swell of her bum.

He would be content to stay like this for a lifetime, losing himself in soft lips and warm skin, but then she starts to take small steps backwards, towards his bed, and he is all to happy to follow. When they reach the bed she tries to climb on top without breaking the kiss – fails miserably – one leg rising at an awkward angle before she starts to sway and lose balance.

Cullen catches her as she begins to pitch to the side, lifting her easily in his arms and laughing a little louder than is probably polite at her surprised expression. He carries her forward as he clambers up onto the bed before settling her gently on top of the bed linens.

She glares at him, apparently not appreciating the laughter. “Shut up,” she says with a playful nip at his bottom lip.

He nods at her with mock solemnity. “Absolutely, my lady, not another sound.”

There's a frown between her brows, but a playful smile on her lips, and she pushes herself up onto her elbows to whisper into his ear, “well... I don't mind _some_ sound. I _do_ like to hear you moan.” She finishes her words with a nibble to his earlobe and Cullen can feel a shiver of anticipation shudder along his spine.

He kisses her again – deep and slow and all-consuming – until he's left breathless and panting against her lips. Then he presses a kiss to her chin, another below her jaw, a whole litany of kisses whispered along her neck and across her collarbone. He can feel her shiver under him, softly sighing his name in encouragement as her hands tangle in his hair.

His hands unclasp her brassiere with surprising speed given how they shake and once the garment has been thrown aside, he can continue exploring her skin with his lips, his mouth hot and wet as he kisses her bared breasts. Her soft sighs turn into needy moans when he licks the hardened peak of one nipple and the sound is so arousing a part of him wants to stop in his careful ministrations and just rut into her mindlessly as before.

But he wants it to be _different_ this time. This time he isn't going to rush things, he isn't going to lose himself to a desperate lust. He's going to explore every inch of her skin, going to discover every way to make her gasp, every way to make her shudder.

He dedicates his Templar-trained focus to mapping her body, lips and teeth and palms skimming across sweat-slicked skin. She sighs when he traces her ribs with his fingertips, moans when he mouths the underside of each breast, bucks wildly when he slips her knickers from her hips and licks a stripe at the crux of her thighs. He marvels at every reaction he draws from her, pleased beyond imagining that _he's_ the one who's able to draw such sounds of wanton pleasure and desire from a creature who prides herself so much for her composure.

He teases her with tongue and lips and nimble fingers until she's begging for him to take her, tugging at his hair to bring his mouth to hers, wrapping her legs around him and rolling her hips in clear invitation. He answers her roll with a snap of his own hips and this time when their bodies are entwined, there's a spread of warmth, of _wholeness_ , that wasn't there before. Without the rush and the frenzy he can really _feel_ her, the heat of her, the clench of her muscles drawing him in.

He starts slowly, so slowly he can scarcely believe his self-control. He's steady, thrusting into her with a gentle, languorous rhythm that she matches with the steady lilt of her own body. His lips fall to her jaw, her temple, her mouth, murmuring praise between tender kisses.

At first her small hands had been tracing patterns along the muscles of his chest but as their pace begins to quicken, she starts to cling desperately to his shoulders as if trying to ground herself, head thrown back and mouth open as gasps and sighs escape her. He grips her hips to angle her, hitting her deeper, harder – faster and _faster._ She unravels with a keening moan, her whole body shuddering and quivering beneath him, her crossed ankles digging almost painfully into the small of his back. He loses his rhythm a little as she writhes and quakes but he manages a few last, deep thrusts before his own body tenses and trembles with the peak of his pleasure. He muffles his shout into the crook of her neck, nose nuzzling into her wild curls and eyes scrunched from the power of his release.

This time he remembers to roll away before letting his body collapse into a sweaty, spent tumble of limbs – careful not to crush her like he'd done on the desk. He's trying to catch his breath, gulping at the air like a drowning man just breaking the surface of the water, but his body still spasms with little tingling aftershocks and he can't quite get control of himself. He blinks through the haze of pleasure and lust, focusing intently on the sprinkling of stars he can see through the hole in his roof in an effort to centre himself.

The feeling of Anwen settling in beside him is what finally draws his focus – body stretched against his side, sticky and uncomfortably hot but it's _her_ so he doesn't care. Her head rests on his shoulder, puffs of breath tickling at his neck, and as fatigue starts to settle in his limbs, he can't remember the last time he ever felt so satisfied or so at-ease.

They lie in silence for a time, their hands resting on his stomach, fingers entwined, letting the crisp night air cool their flushed skin. Occasionally he'll bend his head down and kiss her crown, just because she's there and he can, and she hums in return and smiles up at him, contented and a little dopey.

Finally, Anwen breaks the silence. “Cullen, can I ask you something?”

He looks down at her with a smile and eyes glassy with adoration. “Anything, my love.”

There's a pause then, “what the fuck is wrong with your _fucking roof_?”

He laughs, the question so utterly unexpected for the moment and yet so typically blunt for Anwen. “Ah – the ever eloquent Lady Inquisitor!” he says with a snort.

She nudges him sharply in his ribs. “If I'm going to be spending more time in your bed then I'm going to need that hole fixed – we can't have the Inquisitor catching a cold and fucking _dying_ because of shoddy roofing.”

“Well I suppose there's always _your_ bed?”

“At the top of the tower? With all those stairs? Pfft – too far.” She waggles her eyebrows as she looks up at him with hooded eyes. “I'm not sure I can keep my hands off you that long.”

He chuckles. “Well then I suppose there's always the desk again?”

“Or the War Table?” she suggests with a smirk and a wink.

They laugh, loud and hearty. But then there's a _pause_ and the look she's giving him is oddly intense and intriguingly _heated_. The War Table has featured in his fantasies pretty regularly since their arrival at Skyhold – to the point that he often finds it hard to pay attention during their Council meetings, too distracted by the phantom images of her writhing and panting on the tabletop. From Anwen's expression, it would appear that she might be willing to make those fantasies a reality.

An interesting discovery – and one he's looking forward to exploring later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	12. Lilacs and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anwen have a romantic picnic, and Cullen gets a little more than he bargained for...

Cullen is surrounded by colour. Irises grow in the flowerbed beside him, their blanket of cool blue interrupted with bright bursts of pink tulips and yellow daffodils. Behind him, a tall purple lilac bush is filling the air with a sweet, fresh smell that reminds him of his mother's small, meticulously tended garden in Honnleath, of springtime and _home_. Stretching above him, a canopy of pink blossoms obscure the high, midday sun and cast everything in a warm, rosy glow. When the wind rustles through the branches, as it's doing now, it sets loose a storm of petals, pink motes that dance in elegant loops and whorls to the ground.

_It would be a pleasant spot for a picnic,_ he'd written in one of his letters what feels like a lifetime ago. 

It turns out, he'd been right. 

He's settled comfortably on a thick, rough-spun blanket, a wicker basket full of breads and cheese at his knee, a bottle of something dry and white at his elbow. A box of chocolates has spilled most of its contents across the blanket (someone had been rummaging for their favourite lavender creme) and a flat wooden tray is covered in the remains of what had been an impressive array of pastries and tiny, frilly cakes – all woefully Orlesian but, he's loath to admit, absolutely delicious. 

And then of course there's Anwen, stretched on her stomach next to him, propped up on her elbows so she can read her book. Occasionally she'll read out a few sentences she thinks are particularly well-written, or she'll absentmindedly pluck something from the box of chocolates and bite into it with a pleased hum, but mostly they just sit in silence, enjoying each other's company and this rare moment of peace – no duties, no commands, just the two of them.

The last few months have been difficult for the both of them but this moment –  _this moment_ – is absolute perfection. 

Cullen watches as a blossom petal winds lazily on the breeze, dipping and diving until finally coming to rest in a curl just above Anwen's ear. He leans over, lifts the petal on a fingertip, then blows – watching with an almost childlike fascination as it curls and whirls in the air before landing gently on the rug. 

When he turns to look back at Anwen, she's already looking at him with a sort of bemused smile on her face, one brow arched curiously. He just shrugs, then leans forward further to broach the space between them and place a tender kiss to the tip of her nose. She giggles – and he wonders who else has had the pleasure of hearing the mighty Inquisitor  _giggle_ – then presses her lips against his, soft and tender and  _perfect_ , just like everything else this lazy afternoon. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against her lips, delighting in the way her whole face seems to light up at the words, eyes glassy and mouth smiling.

She opens her mouth to speak but then, unexpectedly, it's  _Sera's_ voice he hears. “What's that then?” the elf shouts across Skyhold's Garden and when his head jerks up at the sound, he can see her stalking determinedly towards him. 

_Oh Maker, no._

“Is there cake left?” Sera asks as she kneels down onto the blanket, skinny fingers immediately picking at the tray of treats.

“Some,” Anwen replies with a chuckle; apparently amused and not _absolutely horrified_ as Cullen is.

Sera picks up a large, round bun slathered in gaudy pink icing and takes a bite, letting out a dismayed little whinny as fat blobs of cream burst from the dough and dribble down her tunic. With sticky, pink-stained fingers, she swipes the cream from the fabric and licks it off each fingertip with an exaggerated suck and pop. Cullen cringes.

“What?!” Sera demands when she sees his expression, “I don't want to fucking waste any!”

“Quite so,” Anwen says with a smirk and he can tell that she's cruelly entertained by his discomfort.

“Well I'm glad you've enjoyed the cake,” Cullen lies, handing Sera another, “feel free to take as many as you want _as you leave_.”

Sera ignores the obvious dismissal in his words and instead settles herself more fully on the blanket, crossing her legs beneath her and reaching for the box of chocolates. 

Cullen sighs. 

“Well doesn't this look nice,” comes another voice from behind and when Cullen turns he finds Varric watching over them.

_Maker preserve him,_ he thinks with a mild note of panic. While Sera's presence is unwanted, he's still relatively certain it's short-lived – after all, she has a notoriously short attention span – but Varric?... Varric is  _chatty_ . Once he's started with one of his stories, there's no way Cullen's going to get his blissful moment of peace and quiet back. 

“Is that Rowan's Rose?” Varric asks with genuine curiosity, head nodding at the bottle standing at Cullen's elbow.

“Why yet it is,” Anwen replies brightly, reaching for the bottle, “would you like a taste?”

_What?! What in the void is she_ doing _? Don't encourage him!_

“Don't mind if I do!” Varric declares as he steps across the blanket and sits down across from Anwen. He picks up the empty glass that used to be Cullen's and watches as Anwen fills it for him with the pale gold liquid. Varric lifts the glass to his lips, pauses, and throws Cullen a crooked smile – the kind of smile which suggests he knows exactly how annoyed Cullen is right now but is too delighted to care.

_That bastard_ . 

Varric hums appreciatively as he sips from the wine glass, then holds the glass aloft in a sort of salute. “Very nice, Inquisitor; you have excellent taste!” he declares, earning him a beaming smile from Anwen.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke stole from Knight-Commander Meredith's personal wine stash?” Varric asks after another long sip and – _no!_ Cullen thinks, _no stories, no rambling tales, no witty anecdotes! Please just go!_

Apparently no one else can hear Cullen's internal monologue screaming in dissension and Varric happily embarks on his story – regaling his small audience with another ridiculous tale of Hawke's escapades. And if Cullen laughs at the end, it's because he's being polite and not because he's genuinely entertained by the mental image of Hawke trying to act casual while walking out of the Gallows with half a dozen bottles of wine stashed inside her coat. 

He hopes that one story will be enough – and then Varric will leave – but then Sera starts with her own story of pilfering alcoholic beverages and what had started as a mere interruption was quickly spiralling into a full-blown conversation.

_What had happened to his quiet, lazy afternoon?!_

He's still formulating some sort of cunning plan to get Varric and Sera to  _go away_ when he suddenly spies Dorian and Bull on the other side of the garden and –  _oh maker_ – Bull points and Dorian waves and then they're both coming over to join them as well. 

_Will every member of the Inquisition soon be crowded into Skyhold's Garden?!_

“ _Here you are_ , Cullen!” Dorian cries by way of a greeting, “I went to your office but you weren't there!”

“Did you need me for something?” Cullen asks with knitted brows, uncertain as to what Dorian could possibly want from him.

“We were supposed to be playing chess?” Dorian reminds him, hands rising to his hips so he can look down on him imperiously. 

Oh shit. “I'm so sorry, Dorian, I completely forgot, I--”

“No worries,” Dorian says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I didn't realise you were having a little party.” And then, to Cullen's utter dismay, both Dorian and Bull start stepping onto the blanket and searching for spots to sit down. Anwen has to sit up from her comfortable sprawl, kneeling primly to take up as little space as possible as Dorian and Bull settle on either side of her. 

No –  _no_ ! This isn't how it's supposed to be! Cullen is supposed to be nibbling on bread and cheese, and sipping on wine that Anwen has purloined from Skyhold's stores just for him! He's supposed to be lying on his belly with a beautiful woman curled up at his sides and the twitter of songbirds overhead! He's supposed be having a bloody peaceful afternoon –  _alone_ !

“Right!” Cullen snaps a little testily, “of course you two should join us – why don't we see if Josephine wants to join us, huh? Or Cassandra? Why not invite the whole damned Inquisition for a picnic!”

All eyes snap to him at his little outburst – wide with shock and confusion – and while he's embarrassed to have lost his composure, he also hopes that everyone will at least  _take a hint_ and  _leave him alone_ . Unfortunately the Maker has a cruel sense of humour, and when Varric announces, “what a good idea! I'll be right back!” Cullen is just about ready to curl up into a ball and wait for Corypheus to just end it all. 

Varric fetches Josephine from her office, and Cassandra from Maker-knows-where and apparently they 'just happened' to bump into Harding, and the picnic blanket is certainly not big enough for everyone anymore but no one seems to mind. Some are on the blanket, others happily lounging across the grass, everyone leaning against each other in a messy tangle of limbs. People are smiling as everyone jostles for some space to sit, and then Varric cracks a joke and everyone laughs.

Everyone except Cullen – who sits stoic among the mess and wonders how on earth everything went so spectacularly wrong. All he wanted was an afternoon with Anwen – to talk, to read, to watch her smile and-- 

He notices then the look of utter delight across Anwen's face, squashed between Dorian and Bull while Sera's legs tangle inelegantly in the skirts of her dress. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes crinkled with joy, her curls bouncing every time she throws her head back to laugh, which is often. He can't remember whether he's ever seen her like this – unkempt, unhurried; just enjoying the company of her friends.

Varric had brought more wine back when he'd gone to retrieve Josephine and, lacking glasses for all of them, the bottles are simply passed between them. Conversation breaks out, loud and lively – Harding talking of adventure, Dorian of mystery, Varric tells jokes and Josephine gossips. What remains of the picnic is split between them, cheese and chocolates and pastries carefully torn apart and shared. 

There is noise and laughter and  _crumbs_ everywhere – and everything is a mess, and everything is too loud, and yet--

Everything is perfect. 

Cullen notices Bull lean over and murmur something into Anwen's ear, watching with interest as her expression goes from interest to shock to... something else. He doesn't catch the words but Anwen blushes fiercely, sneaking Cullen a surreptitious glance, and he gets the distinct impression they're talking about him. When Bull's finished, she elbows him sharply in the ribs, shooting him a baleful glare that would be more intimidating where she not snorting in fits of laughter. 

She pushes away from Bull then, crawling with great difficulty across the crowded blanket until she reaches Cullen. She smiles at him, kisses him on the tip of his nose, then sits herself down, her back against his chest. His arms rise instinctively, wrapping around her, holding her close, her head tucked beneath his chin. He can feel the rumble of her laughter, hear the smile in her voice when she tells her own stories. The wine keeps coming, and the stories never cease, laughter filling each pause, and Anwen is loose and languid in his arms. 

He was wrong before but now –  _now_ , everything is perfect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!! I always like a happy and super soppy ending. 
> 
> It has taken me far too long to finish this fic - largely due to an eight month hiatus when I just couldn't bring myself to write anything (which I hated!) Ah well... I feel all right with writing again now so I guess this means I should get on with the millions of WIPs I have floating around my laptop.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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